Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Maisie knew well the healing power of Maurice’s skills as a listener, when he would encourage confession with perhaps just one word, question, or comment. One word that could unlock memories and shine a bright light on a person’s soul. Maisie had learned much from Maurice, but she knew that she was too close to Billy for such conversation. In addition to his time with Maurice, Billy would become a “patient” of Gideon Brown, who would instruct Billy in new methods of moving his wounded limbs so that he might free himself of the pain that dragged at his spirit. There was only one obstacle to overcome: Billy had to agree to the plan carefully laid out without his foreknowledge. Billy had to want to end his reliance on narcotics.

  “Getting Billy to Chelstone is the hardest job, Maisie. And it falls to you,” said Maurice as he tapped ash from his pipe into the fireplace.

  Maisie repeated his words out loud as she drove through Brenchley and Horsmonden. As she drove on, the sun came from behind a cloud and shone across morning-bright green fields where newborn lambs ran on still-unsteady legs, and she knew that, whatever it took, she would get Billy on the road to Chelstone and recovery.

  Clumps of primroses lined the hedgerows as she made her way slowly through Cranbrook and on toward Tenterden, winding through country lanes to the picture-postcard village of Appledore with its medieval cottages, thatched roofs, and climbing roses on trellises and doors. The promise of a perfect Sunday diminished as the hills flattened out and the soft undulating Weald of Kent gave way to land reclaimed from the sea, a jigsaw puzzle of fields for arable farming divided by hedges and stone walls. Maisie followed the Royal Military Canal while under a dark thunderous cloud that threatened to do its worst. She had a panoramic view across marshland where trees had grown leaning away from the wind, and small cottages and churches were dotted forlornly in an unforgiving landscape.

  Maisie did not stop to pull up the roof of the MG but instead carefully wound a red woolen scarf around her neck and pulled on her black leather gloves. Frankie had insisted on filling a flask with hot tea “just in case.” It seemed to Maisie that the Romney Marshes were living up to the description penned by William Lambarde in the sixteenth century: “Evil in winter, grievous in summer, and never good.” But Maisie knew there was something to be found in this forlorn wasteland. She was close to Camden Abbey.

  Long before she reached the end of the gravel road leading to the mansion that was now the home of twenty-four Benedictine nuns, Maisie saw the abbey in the distance. The abbey was E-shaped, with a long, two-storey north-south spine and three wings extending out. The center wing held the main entrance. The end of each wing had an unusual bell-shaped face and roofline, inspired by the houses of Holland, where the first owner had grown up. In her letter Dame Constance had written that the nuns had lost their home in Cambridgeshire when it was requisitioned by the War Office for officer accommodation. Sir Edward Welch, owner of Camden House, which was fortunately ill-situated for military use, bequeathed his property to the order upon hearing of their distressing circumstances. He died shortly thereafter, and Camden House became Camden Abbey.

  Maisie parked the MG, ensured that its roof was properly secured in case of rain while she was inside, and proceeded through the main door to what had once been a substantial entrance hall. To her left an iron grille at face height covered a small door. Maisie took the brass handle of the bell-pull next to the grille, drew it back and immediately heard the deep resonant clang of a large bell. She shivered in the cold, dark hall and waited.

  The small door opened, and a nun nodded at her. Maisie smiled automatically, and as she did so she noticed the corners of the nun’s mouth twitch before she looked down piously.

  “I am here to see Dame Constance. My name is Maisie Dobbs.”

  The nun nodded and closed the door. Maisie shivered again, waiting alone. She heard another door open and footsteps grow louder as someone came to meet her. It was the same woman. She wore the habit of a postulant, and as she had not yet taken orders, she could meet Maisie without a barrier between them.

  “Please follow me, Miss Dobbs.” The postulant seemed to swirl around as if practicing for the day when she would wear a full-length habit instead of a calf-length dress, and a cowl would replace the white collar buttoned tightly at her neck. The end of her veil flapped as she walked, reminding Maisie of the wings of a seagull slowing down for a landing on water. She opened an oak door with pointed iron hinges that stretched out into the center of the wood, and allowed Maisie to enter. The nun left her alone in the room, closing the door behind her with an echoing thud.

  It was a small room, with a fireplace at one end and a window to the gardens at the other. Coal and wood crackled and sputtered in the grate, and the red carpet on the floor and heavy red curtains at the window made the room warm and welcoming. The plain wall bore no ornamentation but a crucifix. A comfortable wing chair had been placed in front of the grille that covered a small door situated next to the crucifix. A side table held a tray, and Maisie could see steam rising from the spout of a teapot covered with a plain white cozy. Upon closer inspection she found a plate of homemade oatmeal biscuits next to a milk jug, sugar, and a cup upturned on its saucer. The crockery was plain.

  Each week for one term, when she had been at Girton, Maisie had walked to the order’s former abbey after lunch on a Wednesday, along with her fellow students. At half past one exactly, the small door leading to Dame Constance’s room would open, and she would greet them from behind the grille, ready to fire questions, question assumptions, and prod for opinions. Dame Constance had blended compassion with pragmatism. With the hindsight of the worldly experience she had since acquired, it was clear to Maisie that Dame Constance had suffered fools if not gladly, then with gracious ease.

  The door clattered back, and the warm smile she had known so well beamed at her from beyond the iron grille once more.

  “Maisie Dobbs! How lovely to see you. No, mind you keep well back, I’m still getting over this wretched cold you know, so do keep your distance from my bars.” Her demeanor did not give away her age. The timbre of her voice seemed that of a much younger woman. In fact, it had occurred to Maisie that she didn’t know how old Dame Constance actually was.

  “Do not let me see a biscuit left on that plate at the end of our talk, Maisie. You young women of today do not know how to eat. Why, in my day, that plate would have been nothing but a few crumbs by now, and I’d be licking my fingers and dabbing at them so as not to miss a thing!”

  From her seat next to the grille, Maisie leaned toward the iron bars, the warning of germs notwithstanding. “I can assure you, Dame Constance, I eat very well.”

  Dame Constance was silent for a few seconds before continuing. “Tell me, dear girl, why have you come to me today? What can an old nun can do for a young sleuth? It must be serious for you to come on a Sunday.”

  “I know of the guiding mission of the Benedictine order, and your solemn oaths of confidence. However, I believe that a young woman I am searching for may be within the walls of Camden Abbey.” She stopped. Dame Constance held Maisie’s eyes with her own and did not speak. Maisie continued. “Charlotte Waite is missing from home, and her father is concerned for her safety. I believe she has sought refuge here at the abbey. Can you confirm my suspicions?”

  Dame Constance responded with a simple, “I see.” Maisie waited.

  “You know, Maisie, that in his Rule, Saint Benedict bade his disciples to show special care and compassion toward those seeking refuge, the poor and pilgrims, and he did so because ‘in them is Christ more truly welcomed.’ There are those who knock at the door daily for food and drink, yet sometimes a hunger is deeper, a yearning for sustenance that cannot be named, but one that is always fed at our table.”

  Maisie nodded.

  “One of our pledges, when souls come to us seeking supersubstantial bread to assuage the poverty of the spirit, is the confidence of the cloister.”

  Dame Constance paused, as if expecting Maisi
e to counter her words.

  “I seek not to . . . interrupt the sacred path of one making her way to the abbey’s table for sustenance. I only seek confirmation that Charlotte Waite is here. That she is safe.”

  “Ah, only. An interesting word, don’t you think? Only.” This was the Dame Constance Maisie had expected.

  “Yes, and we use it too easily, I’m sure.”

  Dame Constance nodded. “Only. Only. In the sharing of such information— and please do not take this as a confirmation or denial—I would be breaking a trust, a sacred trust. Where is the ‘only’ in that, Maisie? Come now, what say you?”

  It was Maisie’s turn to smile. The Abbess had put on the gloves and was ready to spar.

  “In this context the only is a request for truth. I am here simply to gain information to put the mind of her father to rest.”

  “Simply and only, simply and only. Everything and nothing are simple, as you know.”

  Dame Constance reached for a cup of water, sipped, replaced the earthenware vessel, and thought for a moment in silence, her hands tucked together inside the copious sleeves of her habit. She looked up and nodded. “Do you know one of the most common questions I am asked? ‘Why is an enclosed nun kept behind bars?’ My response is always the same: ‘The bars are there to keep you out, not us in!’” There was silence again, and Maisie waited for a final decision. “Your request must be considered by the order, and to do that, Maisie, I must have the whole story. Yes, I know—with this comment I have given you the answer you require. However, we both know that your only goes further, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does. Let me tell you what has happened.”

  Maisie was served an early lunch alone in the sitting room. She excused herself to use the lavatory and washbasin facilities provided for visitors. Upon her return, her shoes clattering on the flagstone floors, a fresh tray awaited her, bearing a hearty bowl of pearl barley-and-vegetable soup, a flask of cider with an upturned glass on top, and three slices of still-warm, crusty brown bread. She was just scooping up the final spoonful of soup when the small door was drawn back and Dame Constance smiled at her through the grille.

  “No, do finish. You can carry on eating.”

  “It’s all right. I’m all but finished.” Maisie poured a glass of cider, took one sip, and quickly put down the glass. The beverage was clearly homemade and a strong brew.

  “The order has decided that, on this occasion, we can confirm that Miss Waite is within the walls of Camden Abbey. She is tired and needs to rest and recuperate. I cannot allow her to be assailed with questions. Give her time.”

  “But—”

  “There may be another life taken? The order has considered, and we have concluded that we must continue to offer refuge to Miss Waite.” Dame Constance looked at Maisie intently. “We will pray, Maisie. We will petition God for His strength and His hand in this matter.”

  Thank heavens Stratton isn’t here, thought Maisie. If he thought the order was offering succor to a murderer, he’d have something to say. Then Dame Constance surprised her.

  “If you can return to Camden Abbey next week, you might be able to meet with Miss Waite then. I will have had several conversations with her in the interim, so expect my letter.”

  “Thank you, Dame Constance.”

  “And perhaps you can stay longer next time. I sometimes miss the debate my students challenged me with when they stopped being scared of me, and before they were mature enough to realize that those who are older may know something after all.” Dame Constance paused. “And perhaps you can tell me something, then, that I am curious about.”

  Maisie inclined her head to demonstrate her own curiosity.

  “I’d like to know, Maisie, where do you find refuge? And who offers you close counsel and companionship?”

  Maisie nodded. “I’ll see you next week.”

  “Very well. Until then, dear child, until then.” The small grille door closed with a click.

  Maisie pulled up the collar of her jacket against the large raindrops that were beginning their assault on Romney Marsh. She opened the door of the MG and looked once again at the imposing building. Yes, it looked safe. Very safe. Charlotte Waite had found herself a fortress and an army of knights to protect her. The knights were women, and the arms they bore were prayers. But whom were they protecting? A murderer or another potential victim?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lady Rowan chose to wait at Chelstone until after the new foal was born. Lord Julian had decided to travel to Lancashire to visit the site of a bankrupt factory he was considering for purchase. The economic slump could not last forever, and he wanted to be well-placed to boost the manufacturing arm of his investment interests when the time was right. Upon her return to London, Maisie would be alone in Belgravia for several more weeks with only the servants for company.

  Once again the drive back into London gave Maisie time to consider her next steps in light of the past few days’ revelations. The task she had been retained to perform in the Waite case was almost complete. She knew where Charlotte Waite had taken refuge, though it remained for her to persuade the woman to return to her father’s home. In the normal course of events Maisie would not consider the case completely closed until personal conversations with Charlotte and Joseph Waite had taken place individually and jointly, with commitments from each to fashion a new relationship with the other. But could the completion of her assignment conclude this case, when there were the deaths of three other women to be considered? Maisie detoured. Instead of driving directly into London, she made her way west into the county of Surrey, then north to Richmond. It was time for her to make her monthly pilgrimage to visit Simon, the former love who had sustained such serious injuries during the Great War that he was now in a convalescent hospital where he could be cared for along with other men who had suffered profound injury to the mind. Though he would not know that Maisie sat opposite him, taking his hands in hers as she spoke, Maisie would feel the warmth in his fingers, sense the blood coursing through his veins, and she would continue to tell him of her days. She would describe the gardens that lay beyond the windows, the leaves turning to brown, red and gold before falling, then, later, she would tell of snow on branches and Jack Frost leaving icicles where leaves would sprout in spring. Today she would describe the new leaves unfolding, the fresh green shoots of daffodils and crocuses, the sun higher in the sky, and the springtime nip in the air. Above all, as Simon’s head nodded along with his breathing, his eyes focusing on a place in the distance only he could see, Maisie would share with him her deepest thoughts and secrets.

  She parked the MG and, as was her habit, walked to the lower perimeter of the gardens before approaching the main entrance. Maisie watched the Thames snaking through Richmond, and consciously took four deep breaths placing the fingers of her right hand against the cloth of her aubergine jacket at the point she knew to be the center of her body. She closed her eyes and took one more deep breath. She was ready.

  “Good morning, Miss Dobbs, very nice to see you again, but then it is your time, isn’t it? First week of the month, right on the nail.”

  “And good morning to you, Mrs. Holt. Do you know if Captain Lynch is in the Winter Garden, as usual?”

  “Yes, I believe he is, but drop in to see Staff Nurse on the way, won’t you.”

  “Oh yes, of course. I’ll see you on my way out, Mrs. Holt.”

  “Right you are, Miss Dobbs, right you are.”

  Maisie turned left and made her way down the corridor that led from the reception desk to the office where the Staff Nurse would be completing medication reports. Though she had only been visiting Simon regularly for six months, Maisie was known to the nurses.

  Staff Nurse welcomed her with a broad smile, and Maisie smiled in turn as an almost identical dialogue to that with Mrs. Holt followed. The Staff Nurse commented that Maisie could probably find her own way to the ‘Winter Garden’ conservatory, by now.

  “He’s in t
here, all wrapped up and looking out at the gardens,” said Staff Nurse, as she pulled a heavy chain from her apron pocket, selected a key and locked the medicine cabinet. “Never can be too careful.” Ensuring the cabinet was secure, she turned to Maisie, “I’ll have one of the nurses pop along in a while, to check on the captain.”

  Maisie found Simon seated in a wheelchair by a window in the conservatory, shaded by tall tropical trees that would surely die if planted outside in England’s ever-changing climate. He was dressed in deep-blue-striped pajamas and a thick blue tartan dressing gown. Matching blue slippers covered his feet, and a blanket had been placed across his knees. Doubtless his mother still shopped for him, ensuring a certain dignity in the clothing carefully chosen for an invalid who would never again consciously distinguish shade, hue, light, or dark. Maisie wondered how Simon’s parents must feel, in their twilight years, knowing that their son would likely outlive them, and that the only farewell for them to remember was the one that took place in 1917, when he said good-bye after his last leave.

  “Hello, Simon,” said Maisie. Pulling up a chair, she sat beside him and took his hands in hers. “It’s been an interesting month, Simon. Let me tell you about it.”

  In speaking aloud to one who could not comprehend, Maisie was aware that she was using this time to reexamine details of the Waite case and that of the murdered women.

  The door that led in from the corridor swung open, and a young nurse entered, nodded, and smiled. She quickly checked to ensure that her patient was showing no distress in the presence of his visitor, and then left silently.

  And as the nurse departed, Maisie wondered what she was thinking as she observed a woman in her early thirties with the broken man who had once been her true love. Did she see futility—she who would later place food in the man’s mouth and watch as muscles moved in physical response to the stimulus, without any obvious recognition of taste or texture? Or did the young nurse, probably a girl at the close of the Great War, see Maisie as one unwilling to open her heart to another, while her beloved was still there in body, if not in mind?