Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Blamed herself?” Maisie watched him closely.

  “Yes. For being barren. Said that you reap what you sow.”

  “Did she ever say what she meant?”

  “Never. I just thought that she had dredged up every bad thing she’d ever done and heaped it on herself.” Sedgewick shrugged. “She was a good girl, my Pippin.”

  Maisie leaned toward Sedgewick, just close enough for him to feel warmer and, subconsciously, more at ease.

  “Can you tell me if your wife was troubled about anything else? Had there been any discord between her and any other person?”

  “Pippin was not one to gush all over other people, or rush over to natter with the neighbors. But she was kind and thoughtful, knew if someone needed help and always passed the time of day if she saw someone she knew on the street. But . . . did you say ‘ever,’ Miss Dobbs?”

  “I know that might be a tall assignment, John.”

  “You know, I think she only ever walked out with one man before we met. She was shy with men. It was during the war, and she was quite young really, only seventeen or so, if that. If I remember correctly, she’d met him when she was in Switzerland. He was one of several young men paying attention to Pippin and her group, in fact, he courted all of them at some point. He ended up marrying one of her friends, who, I think, had nothing but trouble with him. Bit of a ladies’ man, he was.” Suddenly Sedgewick frowned, “You know, funny that should come to mind, because he was back in touch with her, I don’t know, must have been toward the end of last year. I’d all but forgotten about it.”

  “Who was the man, and why had he made contact again? Do you know?”

  “I have a terrible memory for names, but his was quite unusual. Not like your average ‘John,’ you know!” Sedgewick smiled faintly. “Apparently his wife, who, as I said, was an old friend of Pippin’s, was drinking heavily. He tracked down Pippin and telephoned to see if she could help at all, speak to the wife, try to get her on the straight and narrow. But they hadn’t been in touch for years and I don’t think Pippin wanted anything to do with it. She said no, and that was that. At least as far as I know. She told me that her friend probably drank to forget. Didn’t think much about it at the time. She said, ‘Everyone’s got something to help them forget things, haven’t they? She’s got the bottle, I’ve got my garden.’ Sounds a bit harsh, but I wouldn’t have wanted her to get involved with a woman like that.”

  Maisie did not want to influence Sedgewick with her suspicions. “And you are sure you can’t recall his name? What letter did it begin with?”

  “Oh dear, Miss Dobbs . . . it was, um . . .” Sedgewick rubbed his brow. “Um . . . I think it was M—yes, that’s it. Muh, mih, mah . . . mah . . . yes, mah . . . mag . . . Magnus! Yes, Magnus Fisher. Now I remember.”

  “And his wife’s name was Lydia?”

  “Yes, yes! Miss Dobbs, I do believe you knew all the time!”

  “John, have you read the newspapers recently?”

  “No, I can’t stand it! They always point the finger, and while Pippin is still somewhere on the front page, the finger is pointed at me.”

  Maisie delved further. “The police haven’t returned since last week?”

  “No. Of course they come to the house to check that I’m still here, and I’m not supposed to leave the area, pending the closure of inquiries, or whatever the official line is.”

  Maisie was surprised that Stratton had not revisited Sedgewick since Lydia Fisher’s body was discovered. “John, Lydia Fisher was found dead—murdered—last week. A subsequent post-mortem examination suggested that there were similarities between your wife’s murder and Mrs. Fisher’s. I suspect the police have not spoken to you yet, pending further investigation. The press was rather too forthcoming with details of your wife’s murder and as there are those who will copy infamy, the police might not want to draw attention to similarities at this very early stage. I have no doubt, though, that the police—and the press—will be on your doorstep again soon.”

  Sedgewick clutched his shoulders, rocking himself back and forth, then stood up, and began to pace. “They’ll think it was me, they’ll think it was me. . . .”

  “Calm down, John, calm down. They will not think it’s you. I suspect that their conclusions will be quite the opposite.”

  “Oh, that poor woman, that poor woman . . . and my poor Pippin.” John Sedgewick began to weep as he sat heavily in the armchair, and Maisie knelt so that he could lean upon her shoulder. All formalities of polite interaction between a woman and a man she did not know fell away as Maisie allowed her strength of spirit to seep into Sedgewick. Once again he fought for composure.

  “I don’t understand; what does this mean?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I intend to find out. Can you face more questions, John?”

  John Sedgewick took an already soiled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and nose. “Yes.Yes, I’ll try, Miss Dobbs. And I am so sorry. . . .”

  Maisie took her seat and raised her hand. “Don’t apologize. Grief should be aired, not buried. Do you know if your wife was also acquainted with a woman called Charlotte Waite?”

  Sedgewick looked up at Maisie. “The Waite girl? Why, yes she was. Again, it was a long time ago, long before we met. I say, what is all this about, Miss Dobbs?”

  “I’m not sure, John, I am simply picking up loose threads.”

  “Charlotte and Lydia were part of the same—coterie, I think you’d call them. You know, a group of young girls who spend time together on Saturdays, have tea together, and then spend their allowances on trifles, that sort of thing.”

  Maisie nodded, though as a young girl there had been no coterie for her, no trifles, only more errands to run and her chores below stairs to perform as efficiently and quickly as possible, leaving her more time to study.

  “But they grew apart, you know, as people do. Charlotte was very wealthy, as was Lydia. Pippin was part of a certain social circle that, frankly, she did not choose to belong to as they matured. I think they all had a falling out, but as I said, this was long before Pippin and I began courting.”

  “Was a woman called Rosamund part of the group?”

  Sedgewick sighed, and pressed his hands to his eyes. “The name rings a bell. I might have heard the name ‘Rosie’—I don’t think I heard ‘Rosamund’; . . . no . . . not ‘Rosamund.’”

  Maisie prepared to ask her next question, when he spoke first. “You know, I have just remembered something odd. Mind you, I don’t know if it’s of any use to you.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, it’s about the Waite girl; her father, really. It must have been before we were married.” Sedgewick scratched his head, “I’m as bad with time as I am with names. Yes, it was before we were married, because I remember being in Pippin’s mother’s parlor. Now it’s coming back to me. I arrived at the house on my bicycle just as a rather large motor car was leaving. Too fast if you ask me, I remember the gravel spitting up and hitting me in the face. Anyway, the housekeeper let me in, said that Pippin was in the parlor. As I walked in she was there, drying her eyes: She’d been crying. I pleaded with her to tell me what was the matter, but she would only say that she had had some sort of crossed words with Mr. Waite, Charlotte’s father. I threatened to go after him, but she wouldn’t allow it and said that if I did, then she would never see me again. That it would never happen again, or something like that.”

  “And she never revealed the cause of the discord?”

  “Never. I suspected it might have to do with Charlotte. I thought perhaps that Pippin had told a lie on her behalf—you know, saying that Charlotte was with her, when she was really somewhere else. Apparently Charlotte was quite rebellious as a young girl. See, my memory’s warming up now!”

  “Did your wife ever see Joseph Waite again? Or hear from him?”

  “No, I don’t think she did. She never mentioned it. After we were married, we settled into a very ordinary life, especially here on B
luebell Avenue.”

  Sedgewick looked drawn, almost overcome with fatigue.

  “I will leave you in peace soon, John. But first, I understand that your housekeeper found Mrs. Sedgewick?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Noakes. She comes in daily to clean and dust, prepare supper, that sort of thing. She had gone out for a couple of hours, to the shops, and when she came home, she found Pippin in the dining room. It appears she’d had someone to tea, which was unusual, because she hadn’t said that she was expecting a visitor or mentioned it to Mrs. Noakes.”

  “And you were at work?”

  “Yes, in the City. I’m a civil engineer, Miss Dobbs, so I was out at a site all afternoon. Plenty of people saw me, but of course, I was also traveling between places, which interests the police enormously. They sit there with their maps and train timetables trying to work out if I could have come home, murdered my wife, and been back on a building site in time for my next alibi.”

  “I see. Would you show me the dining room?”

  In contrast to the untidy kitchen and drawing room, the dining room was immaculate, though evidence of police presence was everywhere throughout the house. It was clear that a thorough investigation had taken place in the room where Philippa Sedgewick had met her death.

  “There wasn’t any blood to speak of.” The tendons in Sedgewicks throat became taut as he spoke of his wife’s murder. “Apparently the murderer drugged her with something first, before . . . before using the knife.”

  “Yes.” Maisie walked around the room, observing but not touching. All surfaces were clean, with only a thin layer of dust. She walked to the window and opened the curtains to allow natural light to augment the grainy electric illumination. Fingerprinting was used widely now and Maisie could see residues of powder where police had tested for dabs left by the murderer. Yes, Stratton’s men had done a thorough job.

  As if reading her mind, Sedgewick spoke. “Inspector Stratton isn’t such a bad chap. No, not too bad. It’s that sergeant of his that makes my skin crawl, Caldwell. He was a nasty piece of work. Have you met him?”

  Maisie was preoccupied with scanning the nooks and crannies of the dining room, but an image of the small, brisk man with a pointed nose and a cold stare came to mind. “Only once or twice.”

  “Just as well. He all but accused me when they took me in for questioning. Stratton was kinder. Mind you, I’ve heard that they do that, you know, play nice and nasty so that the suspect either gets unsettled or too relaxed before the other goes for the jugular.”

  Maisie looked on each surface and under each piece of furniture. Sedgewick, who was now very much at ease in her company, seemed to ramble in conversation. Maisie touched a place on the floor, then brought her fingers close to her nose.

  “I heard two of the constables speaking. Apparently Stratton lost his wife in childbirth five years ago. Got a little boy at home and is bringing him up alone. It would make him more understanding, I suppose.”

  Maisie had been kneeling. She stood so quickly that her head spun.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Dobbs. Yes, he’s a widower. Just like me.”

  Maisie quickly completed her investigation, taking care not to let her desire to be alone, to gather her thoughts, distract her from the job at hand. She might not have another opportunity. But there seemed to be nothing that spoke to her here except John Sedgewick’s grief.

  “It’s time for me to go, John. Will you be all right?”

  “Yes, I will. Speaking about Pippin seems to have fortified me. I should do something, I suppose. Tidy the house, that sort of thing. Mrs. Noakes has been too upset to come back, though she did write to say that she believes me innocent. Which is heartwarming, considering that my own sister and mother are keeping well away, and Pippin’s mother is too full of grief to visit.”

  “Perhaps if you open the curtains, you’ll feel even better. Let the light in, John.”

  Sedgewick smiled. “I could probably do with getting out into the garden. It was always Pippin’s domain, you know, the garden. Since she was a child she loved to grow things.”

  “Enjoy the garden. After all, she planted it for both of you.”

  As Maisie turned to leave, she felt a pressure in the middle of her back, as if she was being restrained. She gasped at the sensation, and realized that she had missed something, something she should not have overlooked.

  “John, is there someplace here, a part of the garden, perhaps, that your wife particularly liked? Did she have a potting shed or greenhouse, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, at the side of the house here. In fact, Mrs. Noakes said that Pippin was in there when she left to go shopping. She loved the greenhouse. I designed it for her. You’ll see, it has three parts: a traditional glass section for bringing on seedlings; a shed with windows so that she would have a shaded area for potting; then the third part is a sort of conservatory, where she had her exotics, and where she would sit in her armchair with a gardening book. I don’t think I ever saw her with another type of book. Let me show you.”

  Sedgewick led the way to the side of the house, where a willow tree obscured Philippa Sedgewick’s horticultural sanctuary from street view. Maisie entered, and immediately felt the humid warmth of a well-tended greenhouse, along with the pungent salty aroma of young geraniums growing in terra-cotta pots. She walked slowly along an inner path, to a stable door of wood and glass. Opening top and bottom, Maisie entered the musky potting shed, then walked through to the small conservatory-cum-sitting-room on the other side: the dead woman’s own special domain.

  It reminded her of the winter garden where Simon sat with his blanket and his secrets. A wicker chair with green and rose cushions was still indented, as if the owner had only just risen. It seemed so warm that a cat would have immediately claimed the place. Once again Maisie paced, and was immediately drawn to a gardening book set on a table beside the chair. She opened the front cover and leafed through until the book seemed to fall open at the point where Philippa Sedgewick had set her bookmark, perhaps when the killer had come to call. She imagined Philippa hearing the sharp rap of the door knocker in the distance, quickly marking her place and jumping up to answer the door. Or had the killer come to look for her when his knock was not answered? If he was an acquaintance, she would have marked her place and offered tea.

  Geranium. Pelargonium. Maisie ran her finger down the spine of the book, and as she did so, she felt a faint prickle. Looking more closely, she reached in and carefully took out the spiny yet smooth source of the sensation. Yes, yes, yes.

  Maisie placed her find within a handkerchief while John Sedgewick was looking at a rather large waxy green plant in the corner. “Of course, I couldn’t tell one from the other, though Pippin could name every one, and in Latin. I think that’s the only reason she studied Latin in school, to learn more about plants.”

  “I learned Latin once myself, simply to better understand another subject. I’d better be going, John. Thank you so much for your help, you have been most kind.”

  Sedgewick held out his hand to Maisie. “Well, it was a dodgy start, wasn’t it? But I think you have helped me more than I’ve assisted you.”

  “Oh, you have helped, John. Enormously. I am sure that you’ll be seeing Detective Inspector Stratton soon, and I’d appreciate it if no mention is made of my visit here today.”

  “Not a word, Miss Dobbs, not a word. But, before you go, what case are you working on, if I may ask?”

  “It has to do with a missing person.” She left at once, to avoid further questions. She needed to think. Starting the MG as quickly as she could, Maisie pushed the motor car into gear. She turned to look at Number Fourteen Bluebell Avenue one last time before speeding off, and saw John Sedgewick walk slowly toward his wife’s roses, then reach down to pull some weeds. Later, as she moved into traffic to return to London, Maisie thought not of Sedgewick but of Richard Stratton. A man who had lost his wife, too. And she thought of the chance discovery she had made,
which she would now take back to her rooms and place with the twin that she had carefully wrapped in another linen handkerchief while standing in Lydia Fisher’s drawing room.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The gas fire was turned off, so the room was cold by the time Maisie arrived back at the office on Sunday evening. On the desk in front of her she saw a single sheet of paper filled with Billy’s large, primary school handwriting, along with several unopened envelopes placed separately on the desk so that Maisie could view each one individually before slicing it open. Billy had had a productive Saturday morning.

  “Brrr. Let’s see: Cantwell bill sent out, good. Lady Rowan telephoned, no message. Andrew Dene . . . Andrew Dene? Hmmm.” Maisie raised her eyebrows and continued. “Returned folders to solicitors—” The telephone rang.

  “Fitzroy five six double O.”

  “Miss Dobbs?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s John Sedgewick here. Glad I caught you.”

  “Do you have some news, Mr. Sedgewick?” Maisie deliberately reverted to a more formal address.

  “Yes I do. I thought you’d like to know that Detective Inspector Stratton and the obnoxious Caldwell came to the house after you left. They were asking about that Magnus Fisher.”

  “Really? What did they want to know?”

  “Well, more about his contact with Pippin. I told them what I told you. There wasn’t more to tell. Don’t worry, I did not breathe a word about your being here. But Stratton gave me something to think about.”

  “And that is?”

  “It turns out that Pippin did see Fisher. He’d returned from one of his expeditions about two months ago, and it was during that time that they met. He went off again for a couple of weeks, then came back again. Apparently the dates of his return trips almost mirror the dates of Pippin and Mrs. Fisher’s murders, so the police are interested in him.”