Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Maisie ran to his side, and in the same way that Mrs. Crawford was taken aback, so Maurice was reminded of the years when Maisie was his pupil, drinking eagerly from the well of knowledge he provided.

  “I am so glad, so very glad. Now he will be on the mend. It’s amazing how the body and mind are connected. Even when conscious thought has slipped away, the patient is aware of the healing presence of love.”

  “If I had that much power, Maurice, he’d walk out of there today. But, listen, there’s more. We began to speak . . . together.”

  Maurice stood aside, holding out his arm to allow Maisie to enter his home.

  “It is indeed a wondrous universal alchemy, is it not? When one’s heartfelt intentions cause mountains to move.”

  “Well, whatever it is, I’m glad, very glad. And if it’s not too selfish of me, I’d like a mite more alchemy in my work on this case. The conservatory?”

  “Yes. There’s eggs and bacon, if you like, and some quite delightful fresh rolls. They quite remind me of my childhood in Paris.”

  Maisie smiled, looking forward to the strong black coffee that Maurice favored.

  Teacher and pupil, master and apprentice, Maurice Blanche and Maisie Dobbs sat together in the warm, light-filled conservatory, which commanded a flower-filled view across the garden to the fields beyond, as Maisie gave Maurice a full account of her work on the Charlotte Waite case, and how it had expanded to encompass the murders.

  “Yes, your investigation thus far does seem to indicate that the Thorpe woman’s death should be looked at more closely.” Blanche leaned back in the Lloyd Loom wicker chair, watching a flight of sparrows descend on the bird table freshly laden with breadcrumbs. Maisie waited.

  “An overdose for Thorpe? Followed by morphine and the bayonet of a Lee Enfield rifle for the other two women, you say?”

  She sipped the soothing coffee but hardly touched her crusty roll, despite her realization that she hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s lunch with Detective Inspector Stratton. She was beginning to wish she had a glass of Maurice’s elderflower wine clasped in her fingers. Her interrogation was beginning.

  “It’s as if the murderer was not satisfied with the poison alone, as if a deeper . . . emotion—yes, I think that’s the right word, emotion— needed to be vented. Vindicated.”

  “Have you spoken to Mrs. Thorpe’s physician regarding her mental well-being? Have you completely ruled out suicide?”

  “No . . . not completely. Her physician is the one who issued the death certificate. He’d concluded it was suicide. I spoke to the housekeeper, who knew her very well, and to others in the town.”

  “I don’t doubt your instinct, but intuition must be supported by footwork. Now then, about the Sedgewick woman. You say that Fisher has been arrested based on evidence linking him to Mrs. Sedgewick, suggesting that they were romantically involved?”

  “According to John Sedgewick, her husband, Fisher had been in touch regarding his wife’s drinking, which was beyond his power to control. He also said that his wife did not want to meet with Fisher, but acquiesced out of some sort of loyalty to her old friend. It’s a very different relationship to the one the police have posited. I get the impression, Maurice, that—with the exception of a level of communication between Lydia and Charlotte—these women, who had once been good friends, kept well away from one another.”

  “And why do you think there was a division among them?”

  Maisie allowed her eyes to rest on the bird table, at the flurry of excitement, beaks peck-pecking for a crumb of food, peck-pecking at one another as they pressed tiny, fragile bodies onto the wooden platform.

  “What do you think, Maisie?”

  “I think that something happened, years ago.” Maisie spoke slowly and deliberately while watching the frenzied feeding at the bird table. “Something . . . I’m not sure, but I feel . . . very much, that it’s something of which they want no reminder. And seeing each other, keeping in touch, brings back the . . . shame.”

  Silence enveloped the room. Then Blanche said, “Do you have something to show me.”

  “Yes, I have.” Maisie reached into her pocket, taking out the folded handkerchief and setting it on the table between them. “Shall I get your spectacles, Maurice? I think you’ll need them.”

  Blanche nodded.

  “Here you are.” Maisie handed the lizard-skin-covered case to Maurice, who opened it so carefully that she could hear the almost imperceptible whine of hinges separating. He took out the wire-rimmed half-moon spectacles, placed them on his nose and leaned forward to watch as Maisie unfolded the handkerchief, his chin tilted upward just slightly to improve his view.

  With the tips of the thumb and forefinger of each hand, Maisie spread out the handkerchief to reveal her evidence.

  Maurice looked at the opened fine linen square, then back into Maisie’s eyes. They had moved into such proximity that they could feel each other’s breath.

  “Ah, so delicate. Nature is by far the most talented artist.”

  “Yes, she is, isn’t she?”

  “And you found one at the Fisher house and the other at the Sedgewick house?”

  “I entered Lydia Fisher’s house soon after her murder, and was drawn to the first, although it was almost concealed. The one at the Sedgewick house was hidden inside a book.”

  “Which you just happened to open, no doubt?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the woman in Hastings? Mrs. Thorpe?”

  “Many weeks have passed since her death, Maurice, and Mrs. Hicks has ensured that the house is immaculate for a potential buyer. I fear that if there was one, it would have been swept away by now.”

  “So, Maisie, what are your thoughts? What does this mean?”

  “I’m not sure, but I feel that they are significant.”

  Like marionettes orchestrated by the same puppeteer, Maisie and Maurice reached forward at the same time to touch the delicate perfection that lay before them: two small, white, downy feathers.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After breakfast Maisie reclaimed the MG from George— who protested that he had baredly started work on paintwork— and left for Hastings, planning to be there in plenty of time to allow her to return to her father’s side that afternoon. As she came over the hill into the Old Town, the sea sparkled on the horizon with sunlight reflecting on the water, making it seem as if diamonds had been sprinkled liberally on the surface. Parking outside All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital, Maisie stopped for a while to admire the view and to look down at the lilliputian Old Town itself. In the distance she could hear the clinker-built fishing boats being drawn up onto the pebble beach with heavy winches, and seagulls wheeling overhead. The morning catch was late coming in.

  “That sea air does you the power of good, you know!”

  “Oh, Dr. Dene! I didn’t see you walking as I drove up the hill.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have, I took a short-cut. The Old Town’s full of nooks, crannies, twittens and secret places that only the locals know and I’m a fully fledged local now.”

  Andrew Dene reached to open the door for her. She saw that he had noticed her informal attire.

  “I just have to let the office know I’m here; then let’s go to my lair, where we can discuss the two things on your mind.” Dene poked his head around the door to the office. She heard his voice, then laughter among the staff before he retracted his head and led Maisie along the corridor to his “lair,” which was still just as untidy.

  “So: Your father’s convalescence and Rosamund Thorpe?”

  Maisie removed her gloves. “How do you know about my father?”

  Dene raised an eyebrow. “The jungle drums have been a-beating. And I had cause to speak with Maurice this morning. I know Dr. Simms at Pembury who attended your father when he was brought in. Good man. All his patients make an excellent recovery. I’ve worked with him on several cases.”

  “I see.”

  As if reading her min
d, Dene continued. “We have a first-class accident recuperation record here, Miss Dobbs. I’d be delighted to arrange for your father to be admitted upon his discharge from Pembury. I can start—” Dene leaned toward a pile of folders that wobbled precariously at his touch. Maisie instinctively reached to steady the pile.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Dobbs, haven’t lost a file yet.” He pulled a buff-colored folder from the mountain of paperwork. “That’ll tell you how much work I have to do. As I was saying, I can start the file right now and contact Dr. Simms to let him know we’ve spoken.”

  “Thank you. That will be a weight off my mind.”

  “Good, good. It’s settled, then. We can go over the admitting details with the administrator as you leave.” Dene made several notations on a sheet of paper, closed the folder and set it on the desk. “Now to Mrs. Thorpe.”

  “Yes. I wonder if you could tell me something more about her, especially her demeanor in the days leading up to her death. I know she spent a good deal of time here.”

  “Frankly I thought she was doing quite well, especially as she was so recently a widow. But she was clearly still in mourning.” Dene leaned to one side, moved another pile of folders, and looked out at the sea before turning to Maisie again. “You think she was murdered, don’t you?”

  Maisie’s eyes registered her surprise. She had not expected to hear such speculation from Andrew Dene. “Well, actually—”

  “Oh, come on, Miss Dobbs. I know Maurice, remember. I know very well what you do. And Rosamund Thorpe was well liked and respected in the Old Town, even though she was an outsider.”

  “Do you think she killed herself, Dr. Dene? Wouldn’t you recognize the symptoms of the despair that precedes such an action?”

  Dene was thoughtful.

  “Does your silence mean there is doubt?”

  “My thoughtfulness is simply that, Miss Dobbs: Thoughtfulness. You see, though I think it unlikely that a woman such as Mrs. Thorpe would take her own life, I noticed her sadness on several occasions, particularly when she was reading to veterans. Now, it’s a subjective observation, completely lacking in the protocols of diagnosis, but —her sadness seemed more poignant than anything I observed with respect to other volunteers. You have to understand that among volunteers there are differing emotional responses to what they see. For example, we all know a veteran of the war when we see one on the street, whether he’s an amputee, blinded, or disfigured, but when we are close to that person, in a setting like this, filled with others who are equally disabled—it’s a reminder, a terrible reminder. I believe it can make people recall events and feelings that they would rather forget. Most quickly get over it and before they know where they are, they’re singing ‘I Don’t Want To Go Into The Army’ with the patients at the hospital Christmas party.”

  “But Mrs. Thorpe?”

  “She wasn’t like that. Though she had a broad smile for every patient—and she particularly asked to be of assistance to those who were soldiers—she was grieving as she left after each visit. It was as if coming here, doing this volunteer work, was a sort of self-flagellation.”

  “Do you think she killed herself?”

  “Put it like this: Because of what I saw, I think she had it in her to reach certain depths of despair, but at the end of the day, I just can’t see her actually taking her own life.”

  “Why?” asked Maisie.

  Andrew Dene sighed. “I’m trained as a doctor of medicine. I specialize in accidents and rehabilitation. I deal in the specifics of what is happening to the body, though I am interested in what motivates a person to become well again. I am used to fine lines, but only have a passing familiarity with the type of speculation that is clearly your bailiwick. But if I were to hazard a guess . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I would say that she . . .” Andrew Dene faltered. As Maisie said nothing, Dene exhaled, and continued, “I think she felt she had a debt that had not yet been repaid. So coming here was part of that repayment, wasn’t it? Don’t get me wrong—” For just a moment, Maisie detected Dene’s original accent breaking through. “I don’t want to stick my neck out and have you take it as fact. It’s just my opinion.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Dene. I appreciate your honesty, which will be kept in absolute confidence. Now, you said that Mrs. Hicks wants to see me again?”

  Dene looked at his pocket watch. “She’ll be at the house now. I’ll telephone her, to tell her you’re on your way.”

  Andrew Dene moved several books and papers to reveal the telephone. He quickly placed a call to the Thorpe house and informed Mrs. Hicks that Miss Maisie Dobbs was just leaving the hospital. Then he set down the receiver and pushed the books and papers back on top of the telephone. Maisie’s eyes widened at such disarray.

  “Dr. Dene, please forgive me for saying this, but wouldn’t it behoove you to invest in a cabinet for your files?”

  “Oh no. I’d never find a thing!” he replied with an impish grin. “Look, would you be free for a spot of lunch after you’ve seen Mrs. Hicks?”

  “Well . . . visiting time at Pembury is at four, so . . . as long as I’m on my way again by one-thirtyish. I like to leave plenty of time.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do. We can walk along by the net shops and perhaps have some fish and chips. There are no posh restaurants down there, it’s all a bit spit and sawdust. But you’ll never taste fish like it anywhere else in the world.”

  As Maisie parked the MG outside Rosamund Thorpe’s house on the West Hill, Mrs. Hicks opened the front door to greet her.

  “Thank you for getting in touch, Mrs. Hicks, I do appreciate it.”

  “Oh, Miss Dobbs, I’m only glad to help. I had the feeling that you were acting in Mrs. Thorpe’s best interests, so when I remembered, I thought I’d better get in touch. Hope you don’t mind me asking Dr. Dene. Such a nice man.” She closed the door behind Maisie and led her into the drawing room, where a teapot and two cups were set on a tray with some biscuits.

  Maisie took a seat on the settee and once again removed her gloves. Despite extra clothing she still felt the cold, in her hands as much as in her feet.

  Mrs. Hicks poured tea for Maisie, passed her cup, then offered biscuits which Maisie declined. She would need to leave space for a hearty helping of fish and chips. “Right. I expect you’ll want me to get straight to the point.”

  “Yes, please. It really is important that I understand why Mrs. Thorpe might have taken her own life or, on the other hand, who might have wanted her dead.”

  “Well, as you know, I’ve racked my brains trying to answer the first question, and haven’t had much luck with the second. Everyone thought well of Mrs. Thorpe. Then I remembered a visit; years ago, it was, not long after she was married. Probably not long after the war, either. Joseph Waite—”

  Maisie set her cup into the saucer with a clatter.

  “Is that tea cold, Miss?”

  “No . . . no, not at all. Please continue, Mrs. Hicks.” Reaching into her document case, she took out an index card and began to make notes.

  “Well, anyway, Joseph Waite—he’s the father of one of her old friends. Mind you, they hadn’t seen each other for years and years, not since the war. Anyway, Mr. Waite came here, big motor car and a chauffeur and all, and asked to see Mrs. Thorpe. Perhaps he didn’t know her married name, because he took liberties. What he actually said was, ‘I’d like to see Rosie.’ It was the first I knew that she used to be called Rosie, and I thought it was a bit of a cheek, calling a respectable married woman by the name of Rosie—in fact, any woman, when I come to think of it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I showed him into the front parlor, then informed Mrs. Thorpe that she had a caller and who he was. She was shaken, I know that. Didn’t like it at all. Said, ‘Thank heavens Mr. Thorpe isn’t here’; then, ‘You will keep this to yourself, won’t you, Mrs. Hicks?’ And I never told anyone, until now.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, she
goes into the parlor to greet him, like the lady she was, and he was all huffy. Didn’t want tea or any refreshment. Just says he wants to speak to her in private, looking across at me. So I was dismissed.”

  “Do you know what he came to see her about?”

  “No, sorry, Miss, I don’t. But he was angry, and he got her all upset, he did.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  Mrs. Hicks sighed and tried to gather her thoughts. “Of course, at my age, you forget things, but him I remember. These houses are built like fortresses, on account of the wind and storms. Built for Admiral Nelson’s lieutenants, they were, originally. You can’t hear much through these walls. But he upset her, I do know that. And as he was leaving the parlor—he’d opened the door, so I heard everything—he said something . . . well, threatening, I suppose you’d call it.”

  “What was it?”

  “He said ‘You’ll pay. You’ll all pay one day. Mark my words, my girl, you will pay.’ Then he left, slamming the front door behind him so hard I thought the house would fall down. Mind you, as it’s been here this long, the likes of Joseph Waite won’t hurt it now!”

  Mrs. Hicks was quiet for a while before speaking again, this time with less forcefulness.

  “But you know what was the strangest thing?”

  “What was that, Mrs. Hicks?” Maisie’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper.

  “I came out of the dining room, where I had been arranging some flowers, when I heard the parlor door open. I wanted to be ready to show him out. Well, he held up his hand to me, like this”—Mrs. Hicks held her arm out as a London bobby might when stopping traffic— “when he’d finished speaking, to stop me from coming toward him. Then he turned away quickly. You see, Miss, he was crying. That man had tears streaming down his face. I don’t know whether it was anger or sadness, or what it was. But . . . very confusing it was, what with Mrs. Thorpe so upset, too.”

  That the control-obsessed Joseph Waite had lost his composure did not surprise Maisie, for she knew that when such people cross an emotional boundary, it often leads to a breakdown. She remembered Billy’s despair, and those times when she, too, had known such sadness, and as she did so, her heart ached not only for Rosamund but, strangely, for Joseph Waite. Whatever else he might have done, this was a man who had truly known sorrow.