Birds of a Feather (14 page)

“Oh, Miss Dobbs, I don’t know. I mean, yes, I would—but there again, I feel like such a yellow belly. You know, my mother always said that you should never speak of your marriage outside the four walls and two people who are in the marriage, that it wasn’t right.”

Maisie thought for a moment, knowing how difficult it must have been for Doreen Beale to come to the office. “I believe your mother’s advice was well meant, but sometimes speaking to someone else, someone trusted, helps. At the very least your load is lightened knowing that I have noticed the same behavior. I’ll have a word with Billy. And don’t worry, I won’t let on that we’ve spoken.”

Doreen Beale dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, and nodded. “I’d best be getting on, Miss Dobbs. I’ve got a wedding dress to finish this week.”

“Are you getting much work, Mrs. Beale?” said Maisie, knowing that the income of a dressmaker was directly affected by the amount of money in people’s pockets.

“Not as much as I was getting, but the jobs trickle in. And people do still appreciate fine work.”

“Good. Now then, would you like to splash some cold water on your cheeks? I’ll keep an eye on the children while you nip along the landing to the lavatory. There’s a basin in there, and I put a fresh towel on the hook this morning.”

When she returned, Bobby was still very deliberately using the pencils to draw a train, and Maisie was standing by the table with the baby’s head nestled into the curve of her neck. Doreen Beale collected her children and left the office. Maisie watched as she made her way toward Warren Street, pushing the pram with Lizzie asleep under a blanket and Bobby perched on the end, his stubby fingers clasped around the handlebar. And as she turned away, knowing that she now had to hurry to keep her appointment with Charlotte’s milliner, Maisie touched the place on her neck where she could still feel the soft downy head of Lizzie Beale.

CHAPTER EIGHT

M
aisie suspected that Billy’s interview with Stratton had been draining—especially now that she knew that Billy had not returned home immediately upon leaving the office on the evening that Lydia Fisher had been killed. Though Maisie could not believe that Billy had returned to Cheyne Mews, in light of the underhand transaction she had witnessed between Billy and another man on Wednesday outside the Prince of Wales pub on Warren Street, she was concerned.

The interview with Stratton and Caldwell at Scotland Yard had been a long one, and as soon as Billy arrived back at Fitzroy Square, they set off for the appointment with Joseph Waite at his home in Dulwich. On the way, Maisie hoped to discuss their position regarding the search for Charlotte Waite, and for Billy to recount details of the interview, but Billy seemed to have slipped into an abyss of fatigue. He stared out of the passenger window, offering none of the usual commentary upon the people he saw going about their daily business as the MG sped by, nor did he offer conversation peppered with quips and puns.

“I expect you’re a bit tired after this morning’s meeting with Stratton, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no. Just thinking, Miss, just thinking.”

“What about, Billy? Is there a matter of some concern to you?” Maisie was watchful as she spoke, both of the traffic and of Billy’s demeanor.

Billy folded his arms, as if against the cold. “I’ve just been thinking about them two women, you know, Miss Waite and Mrs. Fisher. Like two peas in a pod, they were.”

“What do you mean?”

“They both seemed, you know, sort of cut off. I mean, they went out and all—well, at least they did before Miss Waite got all quiet. Right pair of social butterflies they were, but when all’s said and done, they weren’t, you know . . .” Billy crinkled his eyes as he searched for the right descriptive word. “Connected. That’s it, they weren’t
connected
. You know, not like, say, me, f ’r instance. I mean, I’m connected to me wife and the nippers. People are connected to them they love, and who loves them back. You can feel it when you walk into a room, can’t you, Miss?” Billy looked at Maisie for the first time since they had set out. “You know, you see photographs on the dresser, and all sorts of bits and bobs lying around that they’ve been given. And there’s comfort, in’t there? O’ course, my wife would call it clutter, but you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do, Billy.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Now, like I said earlier, when I spoke to my mate, you know, the one who works for the
Express
, well, he told me that the word is—and you know they can’t print this sort of thing—that the Coulsden woman, Philippa Sedgewick, was seeing a gentleman who was married to someone else.”

“Will your friend keep you in mind when he gets some more information?”

Billy gave a half-laugh. “Well, ’e’s a bit of a new friend, ain’t ’e, Miss. You remember, you said I ’ad to make me own connections wiv them what could give me information? This one only took a pint or two down the Prince of Wales on Wednesday after work, and ’e was singing like a nightingale.”

“Wednesday night? Weren’t you going to try to get home early before the children went to bed?”

“Got to strike while the iron’s ’ot, ’aven’t you, Miss? Saw ’im going in for a swift one as I was walkin’ past, and thought I’d take advantage of the situation, as you might say. Certainly worked, didn’t it?”

“Well, we’ll talk about it all a bit more after meeting with Waite. I can’t say I’m looking forward to this.”

“Me neither, Miss. Now then, mind you point your nose out!”

Harris, Waite’s butler, had obviously recovered from his illness and welcomed them into the spacious hallway, whereupon he pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket.

“Four minutes to three. I will show you into the library, where Mr. Waite will join you at three on the dot.”

Harris led the way to the library, ensured that they were seated comfortably, and left the room. Maisie and Billy had been alone for barely a moment when the door swung open. Waite strode into the room, pulled out his chair before Billy could stand respectfully. He sat down with a heavy thud and checked his watch.

“Ten minutes, Miss Dobbs. Now then, it’s been four days since I gave you the job of finding my daughter. Where’s Charlotte?”

Maisie breathed deeply and spoke in a level tone. “I believe she may be in Kent, Mr. Waite, though I cannot yet positively confirm the location of her refuge.”

“
Refuge
? And what does my daughter need with a refuge?”

“May I speak frankly, Mr. Waite?”

The heavy-set man leaned back, folding his arms in front of his chest. Maisie wondered if he knew how quickly he gave himself away. With that one move, he was effectively telling her that her frankness was not welcome.

“I suspect that fear was at the heart of your daughter’s departure from your house.”

Waite moved forward in his chair. “Fear? What’s she got to be—”

Maisie cut him off.

“I’m not sure at this stage, though my assistant and I are pursuing several lines of inquiry. Our first priority is to make contact with Charlotte.”

“Well if you know where she is, just go and get her; that’s what I’m paying you for.”

“Mr. Waite. Your daughter may be secure within the walls of a convent. If that is the case, without attention to certain protocols of communication I will not even be able to speak to Charlotte.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a load of nonsense in my life.” Waite stood up and leaned on the table, resting his weight on his knuckles. “If you know where my daughter is, Miss Dobbs, then I want you to bring her back to this this house at once. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly, Mr. Waite.” Maisie made no move, except to lean back just slightly. Her hands remained folded in her lap in a relaxed manner. Billy followed her lead.

“Is there something more, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie consulted her watch. “We have almost five minutes left, Mr. Waite, and I’d like to ask you some questions.”

Waite stared at Maisie for a second, as if gauging how much power he would relinquish by reclaiming his seat. He reseated himself and folded his arms again.

“Can you tell me if you have ever met Philippa Sedgewick or Lydia Fisher?”

“Aye, I can. They were both acquaintances of my daughter, years ago. I think she’s still in touch with Mrs. Fisher but doesn’t see her that often. I doubt if she’s seen the other woman in years.”

“What about other friends, Mr. Waite? Surely your daughter had more than just two?”

Waite hesitated, frowning. He leaned forward and turned the ring on his little finger. “Aye, there was another friend.” He sighed, continuing to twist the sparkling ring. “She’s dead now. Killed herself a couple of months ago.”

Maisie showed no surprise at Waite’s revelation. “And what was her name?”

“Rosamund. Thorpe was her married name. She lived down on the coast somewhere. They were all at school together, years ago in Switzerland.”

Maisie leaned forward. “Was Charlotte upset at the news of her friend’s death?”

“Well, like I said, they hadn’t spoken in years. Charlotte only found out when she saw Mrs. Thorpe’s name in the obituary columns, far as I know.”

“Mr. Waite, it would seem that Charlotte’s engagement to Gerald Bartrup ended at approximately the same time as she learned of her friend’s death.”

“Oh, Bartrup. So you’ve seen him, have you?”

“Of course. And according to Bartrup, your daughter broke off their engagement. I have no reason to doubt his word.”

Waite closed his eyes for a second and shook his head.

“Mr. Waite. Why did you not tell me that Charlotte was your second child?”

Waite was visibly startled. He pursed his lips, then took a deep breath as if to compose himself before responding curtly to Maisie’s question.

“Because it has nothing to do with Charlotte’s behavior, that’s why. It has nothing to do with her running off. I’ve taken you on to investigate my daughter’s disappearance, Miss Dobbs, not my life. Oh, I know, I know, you’re thinking of some explanation based on her grief, or something like that. Well, they weren’t close, though Joe was as soft as they come and looked after his sister, but she had all the false airs and graces of her mother.”

Waite leaned forward but Maisie remained calm while Billy scribbled notes on an index card.

“He was one of the best, Miss Dobbs, the apple of my eye. Always there to help. I started him off in the shops, at the bottom so he’d earn the respect he’d need as he moved up in the company. Took to it like a duck to water, he did. Never complained that a job was beneath him. But to answer your question, I didn’t tell you because she was no’ but a girl when her brother died, and she’s a woman now. This nonsense of hers has nothing to do with my Joe!”

Maisie checked her watch. She had one minute. “And when did your son die, Mr. Waite?”

Joseph Waite stared down at the table, and when he looked up, his eyes were filled with tears. “Joe was killed in 1916. In July, Miss Dobbs, during the Battle of the Somme.”

Maisie nodded in understanding. There was no need to acknowledge his loss with words: Grief from the war cast a shadow that at times was dense and at others seemed as pale as a length of gauze. But it was never gone.

Joseph Waite looked at his watch and shook hands with Maisie and Billy; then, as he turned to leave, asked, “Miss Dobbs, why the interest in Charlotte’s three old friends?”

Maisie picked up her document case. “Because they are all dead, Mr. Waite. I thought you might have seen news of the deaths of Mrs. Sedgewick and Mrs. Fisher in the newspapers. Something of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“I must have read straight past those items. I tend to be more interested in overseas commerce and the business of the country, aspects of current affairs that directly affect Waite’s International Stores. Which is what details of my daughter’s disappearance will do if she is not brought back to this house soon. That’s up to you, Miss Dobbs.”

“I hope to communicate with her directly very soon. Of course you realize, Mr. Waite, that while Charlotte might be persuaded to return to your home, she cannot be forced.”

Waite said nothing but gave a loud
hmmph!
before opening the door. He turned to claim the last word. “I want her back in this house, Miss Dobbs. If she won’t find a suitable husband to share a house with, then she’ll live under my roof!” Glaring at Maisie, he gave an ultimatum: “I’m off to visit some of my shops for a few days, back next Tuesday. I expect to see you with my daughter upon my return. Tuesday, Miss Dobbs. You’ve got until Tuesday.”

The door slammed, to be quickly opened by Harris, who escorted Maisie and Billy out. Billy was holding the driver’s door of the MG open for Maisie when they were both startled by the sound of furiously flapping wings overhead as a flight of doves rose from an old-fashioned dove-cote in the corner of the gardens.

“Lawd, would you look at that!” said Billy.

“Oh, my, they are beautiful!” said Maisie.

Billy shuddered.“Can’t see it meself. Rather look at a mangy old dog.”

The doves returned in ones and twos, landing on the dove-cote and entering it through tiny doorways.