Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Yes, I’m interested in the women, the ones who gave out the white feathers.”

  “Ah yes.” She sighed. “You know, I wondered about them at the time. What made them do it? What made young women say, ‘Oh, yes, I’ll do that. I’ll walk the streets with my bag of white feathers, and I’ll give one to each boy I see not in uniform, even though I don’t know one jot about him!’”

  “And what do you think, now that time has passed?”

  Lady Rowan sighed and stopped to lean on her walking stick. “Maisie, that question is more up your alley than mine, really. You know, the business of discovering why people do what they do.”

  “But?” Maisie encouraged Lady Rowan to speak her mind.

  “When I think back, it’s alarming, some of the things that came to pass. One minute the suffrage movement was seen as a tribe of marauding pariahs by the government, then, as soon as war was declared there was a division in our ranks. One lot became the darlings of Lloyd George, who persuaded women to release men to the battlefield by taking up their work until they returned home. The other half of our number went all out for peace, joining with women throughout Europe. Frankly, on an individual level, I think women needed to take part. We’re all Boadiceas really.” Lady Rowan’s smile was sad. “But some women, some young women who perhaps didn’t have a cause, found some level of belonging, of worthiness—possibly even of some sort of connection—in joining together to force young men to join the army. I wonder if they saw it as a game, one in which they scored points for each man intimidated into joining up.”

  The two women turned simultaneously and began to make their way back toward Chelstone Manor. They walked together in silence for some moments, until Lady Rowan spoke again.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me why you’ve come to me with these questions? Why the curiosity about the Order of the White Feather?”

  Maisie took a deep breath. “I have reason to believe that the recent deaths of three young women are connected to the white feather movement.” Maisie checked her watch.

  Lady Rowan nodded, seeming somewhat weary now that the early walk was coming to an end. “That’s one more thing that I detest about war. It’s not over when it ends. Of course, it seems as if everyone’s pally again, what with agreements, the international accords, and contracts and so on. But it still lives inside the living, doesn’t it?” She turned to Maisie. “Heavens, I sound like Maurice now!”

  They followed the path back to the manicured lawns of Chelstone Manor.

  “Will you join me for breakfast, Maisie?”

  “No, I’d better be on my way. Before I go, may I use your telephone?”

  “You’ve no need to ask. Go on.” Lady Rowan waved Maisie on her way. “And take good care, won’t you? We expect to see your Mr. Beale here by the end of the month!”

  Only if I close this case quickly, thought Maisie, as she ran toward the manor.

  “Miss Dobbs. Delightful to hear from you. I’ve had another word with Dr.—”

  “This isn’t about my father, Dr. Dene. Look, I must hurry. I wonder if you can help me. Do you still know Bermondsey well?”

  “Of course. In fact, once a fortnight I work at Maurice’s clinic for a day or two on a Saturday or Sunday.”

  “Oh, I see.” Maisie was surprised that she didn’t already know about Dene’s continued connection with Maurice’s work. “I need to find a person who may be hiding in Bermondsey. She may be in danger, and I have to locate her soon. Very soon. Do you know anyone who might be able to help me.”

  Dene laughed. “All very cloak-and-dagger isn’t it, Miss Dobbs?”

  “I am absolutely serious.” Maisie felt herself become impatient with him. “If you can’t help, then say so.”

  Dene’s voice changed. “I’m sorry. Yes, I do know someone. He’s called Smiley Rackham and he can usually be found outside The Bow & Arrow; it’s just off Southwark Park Road, where they have the market. Just make your way along the market until you see a pie ’n’ mash shop on the corner, turn on that side street and you’ll see The Bow. Can’t miss it. Smiley sells matches and you’ll recognise him by the scar that runs from his mouth to his ear. It makes him look as if he’s pulling a huge grin.”

  “Oh. Was he wounded in the war?”

  “If he was ever in a war, it was probably the Crimean. No, Smiley worked on the barges as a boy. Got an unloading hook caught in the side of his mouth.” He laughed, “Knowing Smiley, it was open too wide at the time. Anyway, even though there are lots of new people in Bermondsey now, he doesn’t miss a trick. He’s a good place to start. He’ll cost you a bob or two though.”

  “Thank you, Dr Dene.”

  “Miss Dobbs—”

  Maisie had already replaced the receiver. She had just enough time to drive to Pembury for morning visiting hours.

  Maisie was filled with guilt from the time she left Pembury Hospital until she parked the car in Bermondsey. The conversation with her father had been stilted and halting, each searching for a subject that would engage the other, each trying to move beyond a series of questions. Maisie was too preoccupied to speak of her mother. Finally, sensing her discomfort, Frankie had said,“Your mind’s on your work isn’t it, love?” He insisted that she need not remain and, gratefully, she left the ward, promising that she’d stay longer next time. Next time . . . He’s not getting any younger. With Maurice’s words pounding in her head, Maisie sped toward London. Now she had to locate Smiley Rackham.

  The market was a writhing mass of humanity by the time she arrived, and would be alive with people until late at night. Even the women stallholders were dressed like men, with flat caps, worn jackets, and pinafores made from old sacks. They called to one another, shouted out prices, and kept the throng noisy and moving. Maisie finally found The Bow & Arrow. Smiley Rackham was outside, just as Dene had predicted.

  “Mr. Rackham?”

  Maisie leaned down to speak to the old man. Smiley’s clothes, though dapper, as if they had once belonged to a gentleman, had seen much better days. His eyes sparkled below a flat cap, and his stubbled chin dimpled as he smiled. It was a broad smile that accentuated the livid scar so well described by Dene.

  “And who wants ’im?”

  “My name’s Maisie Dobbs,” Maisie continued, deliberately slipping into the south London dialect of her childhood. “Andrew Dene said you’d ’elp me.”

  “Old Andeeee said to see me, eh?”

  “Yes. Andy said you knew everyone hereabouts.”

  “Gettin’ tricky, what wiv all these Oxford and Cambridge do-gooders comin’ in.”

  Had the situation not been so urgent, Maisie might have grinned. Now she wanted to get down to business. She took out the photograph of Charlotte Waite and handed it to Rackham.

  “Course, me old eyes ain’t what they were. Probably need to get some glasses.” He squinted at Maisie. “Mind you, cost of glasses today—”

  She reached into her purse and handed Smiley a shining half-crown.

  “Very nice pair of glasses, too. Now then let me see.” Smiley tapped the side of his head. “This is where I’ve got to rack ’em, you know, the old brain cells.” He looked at the photograph, brought it closer to his eyes, and squinted again. “Never forget a dial. Got a photographic memory, I’ve been told. Now then”—Smiley paused—“she looks a bit different nah, don’t she?”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “I’m not one ’undred percent. It’s me eyes again.”

  Maisie handed him a florin.

  “Yeah. Dahn the soup kitchen. Only been there a coupl’a days, but I’ve seen ’er comin’ and goin’. She weren’t all dolled up like this though.”

  “Which soup kitchen? Where?”

  “Not the one run by the Quakers, the other one, on Tanner Street, just along from the old workhouse—” Smiley gave directions.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rackham.”

  Smiley’s eye’s sparkled. “O’ course my name ain’t Rackham.”

&nb
sp; “It isn’t?”

  “Nah! My surname’s Pointer. They call me Smiley Rack’em cos that’s what I do.” He tapped the side of his head. “But now I won’t ’ave to do anythin’ for a day or two, thanks to you, Miss Dobbs.” Smiley rattled the coins as Maisie waved and went on her way.

  She stood for a while just inside the door of the soup kitchen, in the shadows, where she would be able to observe without being seen. There was one large room lined with trestle tables, all covered with clean white cloths. The staff were working hard to maintain the dignity of people who had lost so much in a depression that was affecting every stratum of life. And at the lowest end there was little or no comfort. Men, women, and children queued for a bowl of soup and a crust of bread, then filed to the tables to find a place among known faces, perhaps calling out to a friend, “Awright, then?” or making a joke, even starting a song going for others to join in. Maisie saw that there was something here that money could not buy: Spirit. As she watched, one man at the front of the line began to shuffle his feet in a dance, then clapped out a tune. Everyone started to sing as they waited, so that even in her anxiety to find Charlotte, Maisie smiled.

  Boiled beef and carrots,

  Boiled beef and carrots,

  That’s the stuff for your Darby Kel,

  Makes you fat and it keeps you well.

  Don’t live like vegetarians,

  On food they give to parrots,

  From morn till night blow out your kite

  On boiled beef and carrots.

  Then she saw Charlotte.

  It was a different woman whom Maisie watched moving back and forth between the kitchen and the tables, talking to other workers, smiling at the children, leaning over to tousle the hair of a mischievous boy or stop a fight over a toy. Two days. She’s been here only two days and people are looking up to her. Maisie shook her head as she watched Charlotte help another worker. And no one knows who she is. There was something in the way that Charlotte moved and spoke with the people that reminded Maisie of someone. A natural and decisive leader. Charlotte Waite was her father’s daughter.

  Maisie made her move. “Miss Waite.” She touched Charlotte’s sleeve as she was returning to the kitchen with an empty cauldron.

  “Oh!”

  Maisie reached for the pot just in time, and together they placed it safely on a table.

  “How did you find me here?”

  “That’s not important.You wanted to speak to me?”

  “Look—” Charlotte glanced around her. “I can’t talk here, you know. Meet me when I’ve finished. I’m on duty until seven, then I go back to my digs.”

  Maisie shook her head. “No, Miss Waite. I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’ll stay here until you finish. Find me an apron, and I’ll help out.”

  Charlotte’s eyes grew wider.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Miss Waite, I’m no stranger to a bit of elbow grease!”

  Charlotte took Maisie’s coat, and when she returned they began to work together while another refrain from the hungry Londoners echoed up into the rafters.

  I like pickled onions,

  I like piccalilli.

  Pickled cabbage is all right

  With a bit of cold meat on Sunday night.

  I can go termartoes,

  But what I do prefer,

  Is a little bit of cu-cum-cu-cum-cu-cum,

  A little bit of cucumber.

  The women left the soup kitchen together at half past seven. Charlotte led the way through dusky streets to a decrepit three-storey house that was probably once the home of a wealthy merchant, but now, a couple of centuries on, had been divided into flats and bed-sitting rooms. Charlotte’s room on the top floor was small, with angled ceilings so that both women had to stoop to avoid collision with the beams. Despite being confident in her soup kitchen role, Charlotte was now nervous and immediately excused herself to use the lavatory at the end of a damp and dreary landing. Maisie so mistrusted her charge that she waited on the landing, watching the lavatory door. In those few moments alone she prepared her mind for the conversation with Charlotte. She breathed deeply, and with eyes still closed she visualized a white light shining down on her head, flooding her body with compassion, with understanding, and with spoken words that would support Charlotte as she struggled to unburden herself. May I not sit in judgment. May I be open to hearing and accepting the truth of what I am told. May my decisions be for the good of all concerned. May my work bring peace. . . .

  Charlotte returned and, stooping, they entered her room again. It was then that Maisie saw a framed prayer on the wall, most probably brought from Camden Abbey to her Bermondsey refuge.

  In your mercy, Lord, give them rest.

  When you come to judge the living and the

  dead, give them rest.

  Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord,

  And let perpetual light shine upon them; in

  your mercy, Lord.

  Give them rest.

  Had Charlotte found any rest at Camden Abbey? Were Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa now at rest? And the killer? Would there ever be rest for all of them?

  Charlotte pulled up two ladderback chairs in front of a meager gas fire, and they sat down, neither taking off her coat as the room was far too cold. They were silent for some minutes before Charlotte began to speak.

  “I don’t know where to begin, really. . . .”

  Maisie reached across with her now-warm hands and, taking Charlotte’s hands in her own, spoke gently. “Start anywhere; we can go back and forth as we need.”

  Charlotte swallowed and pursed her lips before speaking.

  “I . . . I think the beginning is when I first realized how much my father loved my brother, Joe. It wasn’t that he didn’t love me. No, it was just that he loved Joe so much more. I think I was quite young. Of course, my mother wasn’t there very often. They weren’t at all suited, I expect you know that already.” Charlotte sat in silence for a few moments, her eyes closed, her hands trembling. Maisie noticed how her eyelids moved, as if conjuring up the past caused her pain.

  “It wasn’t obvious, it was little things, really. He’d come home from work and, as soon as he saw Joe, his eyes would light up. He’d ruffle his hair, that sort of thing. Then he’d see me. The smile he gave me wasn’t so . . . so alive.”

  “Did you get along with your brother?” asked Maisie.

  “Oh, yes, yes. Joe was my hero! He knew, I know he knew how I felt. He’d always think up a special game for us to play, or if my father wanted to play cricket with him or whatever, Joe would always say, ‘Charlie has to come, too.’ That’s what he called me: Charlie.”

  Maisie was silent, then touched Charlotte’s hand again for her to continue.

  “I don’t know when it started to annoy me. I think it was when I reached twelve or thirteen. I felt as if I were running a race I could never win and I was out of breath with trying. Of course my mother was firmly ensconced in Yorkshire by then, kept out of the way by my father, who was doing very well in business. New shops were opening, and Joe was always there with him. Joe was seven years older than I and being groomed to take over the business eventually. I remember at breakfast one day, I announced that I wanted to do what Joe was doing, start working for the business, at the bottom, like all the other apprentices. But my father simply laughed. Said that I wasn’t cut out for hard work—graft he called it. Not got the ’ands for a bit o’ ’ard graft.’” Charlotte mimicked her father’s broad native accent perfectly.

  “Then he sent me off to Switzerland, to school. It was horrible. I missed Joe, my best friend. And I missed home. But . . . but something happened to me. I’ve thought about it a lot.” She looked directly at Maisie for the first time. “I’ve really considered what might have happened. I became . . . very detached. I had been pushed away for so long, you see.” Charlotte began to stutter. “It seemed the best thing to do, to be. If I was going to be the one pushed to the outside, I might as well stay there. Do
you understand?”

  Maisie nodded. Yes, she understood.

  “I made some friends, other girls from the school. Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa. It was the sort of school where girls were ‘finished’ rather than educated. I felt humiliated, as if he thought me only good for arranging flowers, buying clothes and knowing how to correctly address servants. Then, when war was declared, we all came home to England. Of course, my father, the great man of commerce”—Maisie noticed the sarcasm in Charlotte’s voice—“had already secured government contracts to supply army rations.” Charlotte looked up thoughtfully. “It’s amazing, when you think of it, the people who do well out of war. My clothing allowance came courtesy of soldiers being fed by Joseph Waite.” She looked away and for a while they sat in silence until Charlotte was ready to take up her story again.

  “After we’d returned home, the four of us were pretty much at a loose end. We tried knitting scarves, socks, that sort of thing. Rolling bandages. Joseph was working at the warehouse. He’d started off at the lowest rung and at that time was a clerk in receivables. Mind you, he had apprenticed with the butchers, taken the deliveries out, and he was the blue-eyed boy of the whole business. Everybody loved ‘Young Joe.’” She mimicked a south London accent, which made Maisie look up suddenly.

  “How did you get along with Joe after your return?”

  “Very well, actually. When I asked to work for the business and my father refused, Joe stuck up for me, said it would be a good idea, a good example.” Once again, she looked into the distance. “He was a wonderful young man, Joe.”

  Maisie said nothing while Charlotte paused to gather her thoughts.

  “So, there we were, young girls with few skills, time on our hands and—for my part—nowhere I seemed to . . . to . . . belong.” Charlotte exhaled deeply. “Then I found out about the Order of the White Feather. I saw a bill posted. So I persuaded the others. It didn’t take much. We went along to a meeting.” Charlotte held out her upturned hands helplessly. “And that was the beginning.”

  Maisie watched Charlotte. A natural and decisive leader.

  “Then the game went on, and we were more than willing players. Each day we would venture forth with our little bags of white feathers, and we’d hand them out to young men not in uniform. We each took out an equal number of feathers and when we saw one another later, we’d see if all the feathers were gone. Of course, we thought we were doing the right thing. Sometimes . . . sometimes, I’d walk past an enlistment office and I’d see a young man standing there, or two together, still holding the feathers I’d given them. And I thought, Oh, good.”