Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Come on, we’d better be off.”

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

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

  “No doubt about that.”

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

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

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

  They worked together until six o’clock, when Maisie sent Billy home. For her part, Maisie would return to Ebury Place to prepare for the short visit to Kent. She had planned to leave early Saturday morning for the drive down to Chelstone. The next few days would be busy indeed: A letter had arrived from Dame Constance in the afternoon post, informing Maisie that, despite nursing a heavy cold, she would be delighted to see her again, and there was time to be spent with Maurice and with Lady Rowan before leaving for Camden Abbey. As she made her way back to Belgravia, Maisie added another task to her trip: Chelstone was only an hour or so from Hastings on the Sussex coast, and she had ascertained that Rosamund Thorpe had lived in Hastings.

  Traffic was mercifully light as Maisie made her way to Ebury Place. As rain spattered across her windscreen, compounding the dregs of a yellowish-green smog, Maisie thought not of the work ahead, but of her father, Frankie Dobbs. Whenever she visited her him, he assured her, “Me? Don’t you worry about me, love. I’m awright, like a sheep in clover down ’ere.” But Maisie did worry, yet was ashamed that her concern had not led her to visit him more often.

  She entered the house by the kitchen door. When the Comptons arrived back in town she would resume using the front door, which would once again be opened by Carter, the Comptons’ long-serving butler. And once again Mrs. Crawford, who had put off retirement for just one more year—to add to last year and the year before’s “one more year”—would be mistress of all she surveyed in the kitchen. Maisie would straddle two levels of household life and knew only too well that her good standing both upstairs and downstairs was was terrain to be negotiated with great care.

  She placed her document case on the writing table in her sitting room and slumped down into the armchair by the fire, which was already burning brightly. Home. Was this home? Had she been too easily persuaded by Lady Rowan to reside at Ebury Place because she did not want to refuse the woman who had given her so much? When had she last felt truly at home?

  Sighing, Maisie moved to draw back the long curtains and looked out at fog swirling around a streetlight. Soon the days would be longer and, she hoped, warmer. London’s smog would dissipate as coal fires were extinguished and hearths cleaned out for the summer. As she looked at the streetlight illuminating the twists and curls of fog in front of her, Maisie remembered
the small soot-blackened terraced house in Lambeth where she had lived with her parents. With both parents, that is, until she was thirteen, when her mother died in Frankie Dobbs’s arms, her last words instructing him to do right by their girl. Her last true home, she remembered, had been with her father, until he had done his best for her by finding a place in service at the Ebury Place mansion of Lord and Lady Compton.

  There was a knock at her door. Maisie called out, “Come in.”

  Sandra opened the door quietly and smiled. “Good evening, M’um. Would you like supper in your rooms or in the dining room, M’um?”

  Maisie smiled. She was M’um again, upstairs. Maisie checked her watch. Seven o’clock. A plan was forming in her mind, inspired by the prospect of an evening alone in her rooms. Though she could not identify a place that was now home, there was a person who was home, and Maisie acknowledged her yearning to be with him.

  “Sandra, I wonder if you could pack me up something for me to eat in the car, perhaps a piece of pork pie, or a cheese sandwich—and a bottle of Vimto or something like that?”

  “Oh, M’um, you aren’t going out in this, are you?” Sandra nodded toward the fog, which seemed to be growing thicker outside.

  “I don’t think it will be any better first thing in the morning, do you? I’ll collect my supper on my way to the motor car. I just have to pack a few things, then I’ll come straight down to the kitchen.”

  “Right you are, M’um. I’ll have it all ready when you come down.”

  “Thank you, Sandra.”

  Maisie edged the MG out of the mews behind Ebury Place and into the damp London night. She drove through south London carefully, making her way along the Old Kent Road, and on toward Sevenoaks, Tonbridge, and from there along narrow country lanes to Chelstone.

  As Maisie left London behind, the smog gradually dispersed, leaving only a light rain to contend with. She uncovered the small wicker basket positioned on the passenger seat beside her, and reached for a sandwich. There was something soothing in this journey through the night, with only the flash of headlights as an occasional car passed. The engine rumbled confidently, and Maisie considered not only aspects of her own life that lately seemed to claim attention when she least expected such interruption, but the lives of Charlotte Waite and her women friends.

  Keeping her right hand on the steering wheel and her attention on the road, Maisie reached out with her left hand to the basket again, took out a linen cloth, and wiped her hands and mouth. She reached for the bottle of Vimto and pulled the cork out with her teeth. Sandra had already removed the top and replaced the cork halfway to make it easier for Maisie. She took just a few sips, then set the open bottle carefully in the basket, using one hand to tuck a table napkin around it, to keep the bottle upright and within easy reach. She slowed down as rabbits scurried across the open road, requiring that she swerve around them as they froze in the beam of the headlamps.

  At last she reached Chelstone. She drove first through the village, where the lights were still on at the Fox and Hounds, probably for the landlord to see by as he pushed a heavy broom across the flagstone floor, for it was well past last orders. Finally, she turned into the carriage sweep leading to Chelstone Manor, the gravel spitting and crackling under the weight of the MG’s tires. A few lights were on at the manor house. The Comptons—especially Lady Rowan—kept late hours. Maisie passed the Dower House, where Maurice lived, and turned left several yards along. The lane narrowed as she parked outside the Groom’s Cottage, and quietly took her bags from the car before tiptoeing along the path. And as she looked in through the latticed window, Maisie saw her father, illuminated by the mellow light cast by a single oil lamp, staring into the fire.

  As flames reflected on the folds and furrows of his face, Maisie realized there was another reason at the heart of her reticence to visit Frankie as often as she might. Though still vital, he was now an old man, and she did not want to confront the truth of the matter: that the person who was home to her was in his twilight years and might be taken from her at any time.

  “Oh, Dad,” whispered Maisie, as she ran to the back door and let herself into her father’s house.

  She awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon cooking on the wood-fired stove in the kitchen below. As splinters of sunlight cast a morning glow across her counterpane, she leap out of bed, took her old woolen dressing gown from behind the door and, ducking her head so as to avoid the low beams, ran downstairs into the kitchen.

  “Morning, Dad.”

  “And a very good mornin’ to you, love.” Frankie Dobbs stood at the stove and turned two thick rashers of back bacon. “Two eggs or one? Collected them myself this mornin’, so they’re nice and fresh. None of your shop-bought nonsense, sittin’ in a warehouse for days before it gets to your plate.”

  “One egg’ll be lovely, Dad.” Maisie poured tea for Frankie and herself from a brown earthenware teapot.

  “I expect you’ll be off to see Dr. Blanche as soon as you’ve ’ad your breakfast, eh, love?”

  Maisie looked up at Frankie, knowing that he expected her to leave, to go immediately to the house of her teacher and mentor. How many times had she spent a moment with Frankie only to seek Maurice’s company and counsel for hours? Though she had little time to spare, Maisie sat back in her chair.

  “No, I don’t have to hurry, Dad. I thought we could chat until you go out to the horses.”

  Frankie beamed at his daughter.

  “Well, I’ve already been out once this morning,” Frankie looked the clock. “But I’d best go to check on the mare again after I’ve ’ad a bit of bacon and egg. I don’t like to leave ’er for long, not with the littl’un due any minute. I’m a bit tired this mornin’, to tell you the truth, love.”

  “I’ve missed you, Dad,” said Maisie.

  Frankie smiled, and slid a slice of bacon and two perfect fried eggs onto a warm plate, which he put in front of Maisie. “There you are, get that down you, love. That’ll set you up for the day.”

  Maisie waited for her father to depart before she in turn left the cottage, taking the narrow path that led from the bottom of her father’s garden to the Dower House grounds. At the edge of Maurice’s garden, where the man who had been feted by the governments of France, Belgium and Britain for his services during the Great War now grew prizewinning roses, another gate led to apple orchards and paddocks beyond.

  “Ah, Maisie, so very good to see you.” Maurice Blanche, now well into his seventies, clasped Maisie’s hands with his own veined and bony ones.

  “And you, Maurice, and you.” Maisie held his hands tightly.

  “Come, child, let us sit, and you can tell me why it is that you have come to see your old teacher.” Maurice led Maisie to the drawing room, took a pipe from a stand next to the inglenook fireplace, and pressed tobacco from a leather pouch into the bowl of the pipe. Maisie relaxed into a wing chair, and watched as he held a match next to the rim at just the right angle to the tobacco, and drew several times on the pipe.

  “Now then, what is the case?” He threw the extinguished match into the cold fireplace and settled into his favorite leather chair.

  Maisie told Maurice about being summoned to see Joseph Waite, and the search for his daughter Charlotte. She referred to the murders of Philippa Sedgewick and Lydia Fisher, and the suicide of Rosamund Thorpe, which she intended to look into. She immediately noticed the almost imperceptible response in Maurice’s eyes when Waite’s name was mentioned.

  “Maurice, I have to ask—”

  “You have no doubt seen my notes on Waite from so long ago.”

  “I have. Can you tell me what happened? What caused you to break off communication? I couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t like you.”

  Maurice drew several more times on his pipe, then looked at Maisie intently. “Joseph Waite, as you can probably tell, is a natural and decisive leader. He is essentially a good man but at times a hard man, a difficult man. He is generous with those
in straitened circumstances whom he believes genuinely cannot help themselves. He is no stranger to hard work and demands hard work from others, which is then repaid accordingly. He is, in fact, the epitome of the self-made man.”

  Maisie waited as Maurice drew again on his pipe. A “but” was imminent.

  “As you will have seen from the notes, Waite was an interested and generous benefactor of my clinics in the poorer areas of east and southeast London. He gave immediately and unstintingly, but . . .” Maurice drew breath deeply and cupped the pipe in both hands, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “But he is a man who likes to be in control, or to at least believe that he is in control.”

  “What happened, Maurice?”

  “In short, he began to instruct me in the finer points of doing my job. That may seem harmless enough. However, his instructions revealed deep prejudices. He began to make demands regarding the type of people my staff could or could not serve at the clinics. He tried to stipulate the nature of illnesses or indispositions that we could and could not treat. The people who came to the clinics were human beings, and as a doctor I could not turn away one who was sick, whether a felon or a drunkard, though certainly those who abused their health were subjected to strong words of advice.”

  Maisie was thoughtful as Maurice carefully composed the next part of his story.

  “As with his shops, Waite had the habit of turning up at the clinics unannounced. I had always allowed access to benefactors. After all, seeing the work done on behalf of the poor encouraged further contributions from them. Few came. However, Waite was one of those who wanted to see his money at work. On the occasion in question—I was not there at the time—one of my staff was interviewing a girl. She was very young and with child herself, though at an early stage.” Maurice brushed some ash from his sleeve. “Those who helped at the clinic were instructed by me personally that our concern was for the health of the mother and her unborn child. We’d given refuge to young women in similar situations, or placed them where they would be cared for. They were never to be put in a position of having to give up a child.” Blanche shook his head. “The clinics are not large affairs, usually just two or three rooms, then a little extra space to store supplies. Though we do all we can to ensure confidentiality, Waite heard part of the conversation, rushed to judgment and gave the nurse and the young girl—already emotionally unstable—a piece of his mind. The girl ran away. I was alerted at the earliest opportunity and left Waite in no doubt that his money was no longer welcome.”