Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “No one at home knew what I was up to. My father was busy, always so busy, and Joe was working hard at the warehouse. No one wondered what I might be doing. Joe always asked for me as soon as he came home. I think he knew that I was unraveling. But inside me . . .” —she touched the plain belt buckle of her dress with the flat of her hand— “inside me, I was resentful toward Joe. It was as if I didn’t know where to put all the horribleness that was festering inside me. It was like a disease, a lump.” A single tear slid down her cheek. “Then, one day, I thought of a way to get back at him—my father—and to get Joe out of the way for a while. The trouble was, I didn’t think. I didn’t think that it would be forever.”

  Silence descended. Maisie rubbed her upper arms with hands that had become cold once again. May I not sit in judgment.

  “Go on, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte Waite looked at her. Some might have thought the woman’s posture arrogant, Maisie knew that she was searching for strength.

  “I suggested to the girls, to Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa, that we should try to place feathers in the hands of as many young men as we could. And I also suggested a means of accomplishing the task. The warehouse, which employed so many young men—the runners, the drivers, the packers, the butchers, clerks . . . an army, in fact—was run in shifts, with a bell sounding for the change between each shift. It was my plan for the four of us to wait outside the gates when the shifts changed, to hand out feathers.” Charlotte put her hand to her lips together, then plunged on. “We handed a feather to each and every man who walked from the warehouse, regardless of age or job. And when we had done that, we went to the main shops, as many as we could get to in a day, and did the same thing. By the time my father found us, I’d handed out all but one of my feathers.” Charlotte’s chin dipped. “He drew alongside us in the motor car, with another motor following. The door opened, and he was furious. He instructed the chauffeur in the other car to take Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa to their homes, and he grabbed me by the arm and almost threw me into the motor.” Opening her eyes, Charlotte looked again at Maisie. “You are no doubt familiar, Miss Dobbs, with the wartime practice of men enlisting as ‘pals’—men who lived on the same street, worked with one another, that sort of thing?”

  Maisie nodded.

  “Well, Waite’s lost a good three-quarters of its workforce when the men joined up as pals within a week of our handing out the feathers. Waite’s Boys, they called themselves. Joe was one of them.”

  Maisie’s attention was drawn to Charlotte’s hands. The nails of one had dug into the soft flesh of the other. Her hand was bleeding. Charlotte covered the wound and began speaking again.

  “My father is a quick thinker. He saw to it that the families knew that the men’s jobs would be there for them upon their return. He offered wives and daughters jobs, with the promise that they would be paid a man’s wages and he saw to it that each man who enlisted was sent a regular parcel from Waite’s. He’s good at taking care of the families, my father. The trouble is, none of that compassion extended to me. The workers thought he was marvelous, a real patriarch. There were always parties for the children, bonuses at Christmas. And all through the war, Waite’s kept going, doing very well.”

  Without thinking, Charlotte inspected her bloody hand and wiped it along the side of her coat. “And they were all lost. Oh, a few came home, wounded, but most of them were killed in action. Joe died. He’s buried over there.” She looked into Maisie’s eyes again. “So, you see, we—I—killed them. Oh, I know, you might say that they would have been conscripted sooner or later, but really, I know that we sent them off to their deaths. Counting the parents, the sweethearts, the widows, and the children, there must be a legion of people who would like to see the four of us dead.”

  In the silence that followed, Maisie took a fresh handkerchief from the pocket of her tweed jacket. She held it between Charlotte’s hand and her own, pressed their palms together, and closed her eyes. May I not sit in judgment. May my decisions be for the good of all concerned. May my work bring peace.

  CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE

  Maisie insisted that Charlotte accompany her back to Ebury Place. It was too dangerous for her to be left alone in Bermondsey. They said little on the drive across London, which included a detour to Whitechapel where Charlotte remained in the MG while Maisie called upon Billy briefly to ask him to meet her at the office the next morning. Sunday was to be another working day, and an important one.

  Confident that Charlotte would not abscond now, Maisie settled her into a guest suite on the same floor as her own rooms, before finally finally taking rest. It had been a very long day and would be a long night as her plan, which must be executed soon, took shape. It was past ten o’clock when she went to the library to telephone Maurice Blanche. She heard only one ring before her call was answered.

  “Maisie!” Maurice greeted her without waiting to hear her voice. “I have expected your call.”

  Maisie smiled. “I thought you might.”

  They both knew that Maisie needed to speak with her mentor when a case was nearing closure. As if drawn by invisible threads, they each leaned closer to their respective telephone receivers.

  “I was speaking with Andrew Dene this morning.” Maurice continued.

  “Oh—did he telephone to talk about my father?”

  “No, actually, he came here this morning.”

  “Oh?” Maisie was startled.

  Maurice grinned. “You are not the only pupil who comes to my house, Maisie.”

  “Well, yes, of course.” Maisie was glad that Maurice could not see the blood rising to her cheeks.

  “Anyway, Andrew came to see me about several things, including Mr. Beale.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing of great concern, simply a discussion of how we may best help the man.”

  “I see.”

  “I expect he’ll be here shortly, in the next day or so?”

  “Yes. When this case is closed.”

  “So, Maisie, I sense that as far as your assignment is concerned, the case is already closed. You have found Charlotte Waite?”

  “Yes. Though Mr. Waite insisted that her return to his home in Dulwich would be the point at which he would consider our work complete.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “I will be meeting Billy at the office tomorrow morning. The three of us will take a taxi-cab to Dulwich.

  “You have another plan, don’t you, Maisie?”

  “Yes.Yes, I do”

  Maisie heard Maurice tap out his pipe and the rustle of a packet of sweet Old Holborn tobacco. Maisie closed her eyes and envisaged him preparing the bowl, pressing tobacco down, then striking a match, holding it to the tobacco and drawing on the stem to light the fragrant leaf. Maisie breathed in deeply, imagining the aroma. In that moment she was a girl again, sitting at the table in the library at Ebury Place, reading aloud from her notes while her teacher paced back and forth, back and forth, then, holding the bowl of the pipe in his right hand, pointed at her and asked out loud, “Tell me what evidence you have, upon which to base such conclusions.”

  “So, what else have to to tell me? And where, if I may ask, are the police?” asked Maurice.

  “Charlotte has confessed her part in bringing about the enlistment of a good number of her father’s employees, including her older half-brother, Joe, who was the apple of her father’s eye.” Maisie drew breath deeply and told Maurice the story that she had first heard from the warehouse manager and then from Charlotte. “She believes herself guilty of a crime.”

  “I take it that you do not consider Charlotte capable of murder.”

  “I am sure she is not the killer, though she may be the next victim.”

  “And the man in custody, the man the police believe to be the murderer?”

  “I believe him to be innocent of the crime of murder. He may not be a good man . . . but he did not kill Rosamund, Philippa, and Lydia.”

 
; “Stratton seemed a fair man in the past. Has he not heard your protests?”

  As they spoke, Maisie felt, not for the first time, a sensation of oneness with the mind of her teacher, an intimacy of intellect and understanding, even as he quizzed her. “Detective Inspector Stratton has brought his prejudices to the case. He lost his wife in childbirth and was left with a son. His inner turmoil has clouded his usual sound judgment. The man he believes to be the killer—Magnus Fisher—is an unlikable character, one who has not treated women fairly. Indeed, he admits that he married Lydia Fisher for her money.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “I’ve tried to communicate my suspicions to him on several occasions, to no avail. Stratton will not believe that Fisher is not the guilty man until I hand him the real murderer on a plate.”

  “Yes, yes indeed.” Maurice drew deeply on his pipe. “And you plan to trap the killer, do you not?”

  Maisie nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  Maurice began to speak once more. “Tell me about the means of death again, Maisie.”

  “Sir Bernard Spilsbury has concluded that poison was administered, which Cuthbert has identified as morphine. In two of the cases the victim’s death was followed by a brutal stabbing.”

  “The weapon?”

  “The bayonet from a short-barrel Lee Enfield rifle.”

  Maurice nodded. “The killer venting his fury after the death of his victim.”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Anger, pain, suffering . . . loneliness,” said Maisie. “There’s quite a cocktail of motives there to be going on with.”

  “Charlotte is right, Maisie. It could be any one of a hundred people.”

  “One hundred people might have reason for vengeance, but not every one of those people would seek revenge in such a way. The killer is a person tormented day in and day out, one for whom there is no respite, not for one minute in twenty-four hours. And that person has discovered, tragically, that in meting out punishment, there has been no escape from the terrible ache of loss. The killer isn’t just anyone in that mass of grieving relatives, Maurice. No, it’s one person in particular.”

  Maurice nodded. “And you know who it is, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I believe I do.”

  “You will take all necessary precautions, Maisie.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.”

  They were silent for a moment, then Maurice spoke quietly. “Be wary of compassion, Maisie. Do not let it blind you to dangers. Never let pity gain the upper hand. I know this killer must be stopped, that he may not feel that his pain is assuaged even if he kills Charlotte. He may go on killing thereafter. We have together faced great dangers, Maisie. Remember all that you have learned. Now then—go. You must prepare for tomorrrow. It will be a long day.”

  Maisie nodded. “I’ll be in touch as soon as it’s over, Maurice.”

  Before finally seeking the comfort of her bed, Maisie once again put on her coat and hat and slipped out of the house, remembering her mentor’s counsel when they first worked together: “When we walk, and when we look out at a view other than one we are used to every day, we are challenging ourselves to move freely in our work and to look at our conclusions from another perspective. Move the body, Maisie, and you will move the mind.” As she walked the quiet nighttime streets of Belgravia, Maisie realized that in his final words to her, Maurice had made an assumption, an assumption that was quite wrong.

  She had spent hours in silent meditation and was now ready for what the next twenty-four hours might hold. Before taking a light breakfast in the kitchen, where Sandra confirmed that she had personally served breakfast on a tray to Miss Waite in the guest suite and had run a bath for her, Maisie placed a telephone call to the Waite residence. In the kitchen, she went over her other arrangements before knocking on the door of Charlotte’s room.

  “Good morning.” Charlotte answered the door.

  “Are you ready, Miss Waite?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, let’s get on then, shall we? It’s time we left. I will meet you by the front door in twenty minutes.”

  It was ten o’clock when they arrived at the Fitzroy Square, which was Sunday quiet. As they drew up alongside the Georgian building that housed Maisie’s office, Billy crossed the square.

  “Oh, good timing,” said Maisie. “My assistant has arrived. He is part of my plan, and will be going with us to Dulwich.”

  Maisie formally introduced them and, once in the office, Billy reached out to take Charlotte Waite’s coat. Maisie removed her jacket and hung it on the back of the door.

  “Let’s get down to business. We should leave by one. That should give us enough time to be absolutely sure of each step.” Maisie beckoned Charlotte to join her and Billy at the incident table. A large sheet of paper had been placed where a case map would usually have been unfurled and pinned. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” Maisie took up a pen, and began to explain.

  During the conversation that followed, Charlotte excused herself twice and each time Billy stood outside the office door until she returned, to ensure that she did not leave the building. These were the only interruptions until Maisie pushed back her chair and walked over to the telephone on her desk. She dialed the Waite residence in Dulwich.

  “Hello. Maisie Dobbs here. I want to confirm that all necessary arrangements have been made for Miss Waite’s arrival home this afternoon.” Charlotte and Billy looked on as Maisie listened. “Indeed, yes, I spoke with Mr. Waite early this morning and I know that he was just about to leave for Yorkshire. Back on Tuesday, isn’t he? Yes, good. Do remember, though, Miss Waite does not wish to see anyone and no one must be informed of her arrival. Yes, she’ll go straight to her rooms and I will remain there with her until she is settled. Quite. Yes. No, absolutely no one. Good. Right you are. Thank you.” Maisie replaced the receiver and turned to Billy.

  “Time to get us a taxi cab, Billy.”

  Billy reached for his coat. “Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Miss.”

  As Billy closed the door behind him, Maisie turned to Charlotte. “Now then, you are clear on what you are to do?”

  “Of course. It’s simple, really. You’re the one taking all the risks.”

  “As long as you know that when you do your part, you must not be recognized. It’s imperative.”

  “And you think it’ll—you know—all be over in a few hours?”

  “I believe the murderer will strike again quickly.”

  Billy returned, flushed with exertion.

  “Billy, I’ve told you not to run!”

  “Miss, the taxi cab’s outside. Better get going.”

  They climbed into the taxi cab but were silent throughout the journey, each mentally reviewing the part to be played as the evening unfolded. Upon arrival at Waite’s Dulwich mansion, Billy took Charlotte’s bag.

  “All right?” Maisie put her arm around Charlotte’s shoulders and led her toward the house. Charlotte’s head was lowered, with only a few strands of hair visible beneath her close-fitting gray hat.

  “Yes. I won’t let you down.”

  “I know.”

  The door opened before they reached the bottom step leading up to the front door, and Maisie nodded acknowledgment to Harris as she hurried Charlotte inside.

  “Thank you. We’ll go straight to Miss Waite’s rooms.”

  The butler bowed, inclined his head to Billy as he came though the doorway with Charlotte’s bag, then followed the two women upstairs.

  “Billy, wait outside this door until I come for you.”

  “Right you are, Miss.” The door to Charlotte’s rooms closed behind him as Billy took up his place.

  Maisie took off her coat, then her hat, followed by her blouse. “Hurry, I want you to leave as soon as possible.”

  Charlotte began to undress. “I . . . I’m not used to . . .”

  Maisie pointed to the bathroom. “Go in there, undress, leave your
clothes behind and use your dressing gown.”

  Charlotte scurried into the bathroom, while Maisie removed the rest of her clothing. After several moments, Charlotte opened the door and came into her small sitting room again. Maisie pointed to the pile of clothes on the chair.

  “Now, put those on and pull some strands of hair free. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  She dressed as swiftly as she could. Her hands were cold and she found it hard to work the buttons at the front of Charlotte’s dress. Perhaps she didn’t really need to wear Charlotte’s clothes, but in case someone looked up at the sitting room from the garden, she must be prepared. It would be Billy who had to take care not to be seen.

  Returning to the sitting room, Maisie gasped. “Oh, my . . . if I didn’t know better”

  “Your clothes fit me very well, Miss Dobbs.”

  “And the hat seems to be a good size for you, too.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I . . . I should thank you—”

  Maisie held up her hand. “Don’t say anything . . . not yet, anyway. This day is far from over.You know what to do next?”

  “Yes. I have to return directly to Number 15 Ebury Place. Sandra is expecting me and will remain with me at all times until you return.”

  “And you must not leave your room. Is that understood? You must stay with Sandra!” Maisie spoke quietly but urgently.

  “I understand, Miss Dobbs. But what about my father?”

  “One step at a time. One step at a time. Right, are you ready?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Good.” Maisie opened the door and beckoned Billy into the room.