Birds of a Feather (24 page)

“ ’Mornin’, Miss, and what a nice mornin’ it is, too. Thought I’d need me overcoat this mornin’, I did, but ’ad to run from the bus stop and ended up carryin’ the thing.”

Maisie looked at her silver watch, pinned to the lapel of her jacket.

“Sorry I’m a bit late today, Miss, but there was a bit of an ’oldup on the road. I caught the bus this mornin’, and ’alfway along the Mile End Road, I wished I ’adn’t bothered. Would’ve been quicker to walk—and me with this leg and all. Big mess, it was. Motor car—and you don’t see many of ’em down there—’ad gone right into the back of a dray. Thank Gawd ’e weren’t goin’ too quick. Mind you, you should’ve ’eard them drivers goin’ at ’im.Thought they’d whop ’im one with the whip, I did. One of ’em was shoutin’, ‘Put the traces on ’im, and give the bleedin’ ’orses a rest, the lunatic!’ Oops, sorry, Miss, I was just sayin’ what I ’eard them say. It’s a poor old state of affairs, when motor cars—” Billy fussed as he spoke, avoiding eye contact, taking time to shake out his coat and cap, placing them on the coat stand, then riffling through the newspaper as if looking for something in particular.

“Now then, saw something ’ere this mornin’ I thought you’d—”

“Billy.”

“Got to do with that—”

“Billy!” Maisie raised her voice, then spoke more quietly. “There’s a matter I would like to discuss with you. Let’s sit together by the gas fire here. Pull up a chair.”

His face flushed, Billy put the newspaper on his desk, dragged his chair out, and set it next to Maisie’s.

“Am I getting the sack, Miss?”

“No, Billy, you are not getting the sack. However, I’d like to see a bit more in the way of timekeeping on your part.”

“Yes, Miss. I’m sorry, Miss. Won’t ’appen again.”

“Billy . . .”

“Yes, Miss?”

“I’ll get straight to the point,” said Maisie, realizing this was a prevarication, that she was far from getting to the point. She took another deep breath, and began to speak. “I have been concerned for some time about your—let’s say moods and—”

“I can exp—”

“Let me finish, Billy. I have been concerned about your moods and, of course, about the obvious pain you have been suffering with your war wounds. I have been worried about you.”

Billy rubbed his knees back and forth, back and forth, his eyes on the flickering, hissing flame of the gas fire.

“You know only too well that I was a nurse and that I have some knowledge of the substances administered to the wounded during the war. I saw doctors working in terrible conditions, barely able to practice their profession. When it came to administering morphine and other drugs, they didn’t always know what they were giving, in the way of strength of medication.” Maisie watched Billy, choosing her words carefully as if she were navigating a minefield, trying to keep his attention yet not ignite a rush to defense or the explosive outburst that she feared. Billy’s jaw worked back and forth as he listened and continued to gaze into the fire.

“Billy, I believe you were overdosed on morphine, though you probably didn’t know it at the time. Even when we had wounded men being brought into the casualty clearing station by the hundreds, sometimes people stood out and, as you know, I remembered you. You were one of those it was almost impossible to medicate. You were immediately released to the general hospital, where you were given more medication, then to convalescent care, where more morphine was prescribed to assist you with the pain.”

Billy nodded, but still he did not speak.

“And when the prescriptions ended, like so many, you found that access to a substance with similar qualities was easy, especially in London. Cocaine, wasn’t it? You probably gave it up for years, didn’t you? But when the leg started nagging at you again, you had a bit more money coming in and a local source.” Maisie paused.

Finally Billy nodded, then spoke, his eyes never leaving the hot gas jets that warmed their feet, but did nothing to dent the cold around their shoulders and heads.

“You amaze me sometimes, Miss.” Billy’s upper body seemed to give way as he resigned himself to the truth. “Of course you’re spot-on right, as usual. No use me sayin’ otherwise.” His voice was uncharacteristically low, his speech slow. “When I was first out of convalescence, after I’d come back to London and before I went back down there and married Doreen and brought ’er ’ome, it was easy to get ’old of it. The Canadians on leave were the ones to see, called it ‘snow,’ they did. Good blokes, them Canadians. Lost a lot of their own. Anyway, just like you said, I stopped it. Then, oh, must’ve been four months ago, round Christmas when it was really nippy, me leg started on at me again, this time badly. There were days I thought I’d never get down the old stairs. And it just wore me out, just wore on me . . .”

Maisie allowed Billy to speak. He stared as if mesmerized, into the fire.

“Then this fella, who I’d known over there, saw me in the Prince of Wales. Just ’aving a swift ’alf one night before going ’ome, I was, when up ’e comes. ‘Eh, is that you, Billy-boy?’ ’e says, full of it. Next thing you know, ’e was tellin’ me where ’e could get some.” Billy put his hands over his eyes as if trying to erase the image from his mind, then lowered them once more to his knees and began rubbing his thighs. “And so I said awright. Just a bit would take the edge off. And, Miss, it was like before the war, with all the pain taken away. I felt like a boy again, and let me tell you, I’d been feelin’ like an old man.”

Billy paused. Maisie reached out to the knob at the side of the fire and turned up the flame. Still she was silent, allowing Billy to tell his story in his own time.

“And to tell you the truth, I wish I’d never seen ’im or ’is stash. But I wish I could feel like that all the time. I just wish . . .”

Billy slumped forward and began to sob. Maisie leaned toward him; then she remembered Mrs. Crawford and simply rubbed his back, calming Billy as if he were a small boy. Eventually, Billy’s tears subsided and he sat back. He blew his nose.

“Sound like a bleedin’ elephant, don’t I, Miss?” Billy folded the handkerchief and blew again. “Look, Miss. I’ll go. I’ve no business workin’ for you, and that’s a fact. I can look for another job.”

“Billy, before you do that, think about the lines of men looking for work. Anyway, business is good and I need you. But I also need you healthy and free of this burden, and I have a plan.”

Billy looked up at Maisie, dabbing his nose, which had begun to bleed. He held the handkerchief tightly to his face to stem the flow and leaned back slightly.

“Sorry, Miss.”

“I’ve seen worse, Billy. Now then, here’s my plan. It will help you, but it will need an enormous effort on your part.”

Maisie began to outline the plan of action that she had designed with Maurice.

“Oh,
Doctor
Andrew Dene, the fella what called ’ere for you,” said Billy. “There’s me thinking that ’e might be someone you’d met down there.”

“Well, he
was
someone I met down there,” replied Maisie.

“No, Miss, I meant met, as in, you know,
met
.”

“Billy, I met him to see if he could give me some advice. I wanted to see what could be arranged for you.”

“Well, it’s good of you to take the trouble and all, but I don’t think I want to leave London.” Billy dabbed at his nose, checked to see that the bleeding had stopped, then replaced the soiled handkerchief in his pocket. “I’d miss me nippers and Doreen. And I can’t see me sitting around on me duff all day with nothing to do but wait to do some special moving of me legs, and to see a doctor.”

Maisie sighed. She had been warned by Maurice that Billy would probably object initially, either mildly or more firmly. At this stage she should be grateful that he had not shown anger when she revealed knowledge of his dependence upon cocaine. Perhaps another means of helping Billy could be found, one that would keep him closer to London. In the meantime she needed a commitment from him. “Billy, I want you to promise that you will not procure any more of this substance.”

“I never did let myself get too much of a likin’ for it, Miss, not like some. I tried to take it only when I was in that much pain. Frightened me, to tell you the truth, to know that somethin’ you took, y’know, could change you that much. Scared the bloomin’ life out of me. But then when I felt bad again, ’avin’ a bit didn’t seem such an ’orrible thing t’do.”

“All right. Let’s not talk about it anymore today. But I do insist that you speak to Doreen.” She was careful to honor the confidence shared with Billy’s wife. “If I have noticed changes in you, then I am sure she has. I urge you to speak to her and see what she says about what I’ve suggested.”

“Aw, blimey, Miss, you don’t know my Doreen. She’s one of the best, but she can be as tough as old boots.”

“Tough with a heart of gold, I suspect, Billy. Speak to her, please.”

“Awright, I will, Miss.”

Maisie felt a weight lifted from her shoulders. Her first challenge of the day was over.

Remembering Maurice’s advice, she knew that Billy should be allowed time to regain his balance, now that his burden of secrecy had been lifted.

Now she had to concentrate on the Waite case. “I’ve quite a lot to tell you about my visit to Kent,” said Maisie. “We’ll need to get cracking with the pencils today. Charlotte
is
at Camden Abbey. At least I have performed the most important part of the Waite assigment. She has been located and she is safe.”

Maisie wondered if she should show Billy what she had collected from the homes of Lydia Fisher and Philippa Sedgewick. Though she would never have asked him, she was sure that when she was an apprentice, Maurice had kept certain things to himself, as if in sharing a find before he felt that the time for revelation had come, he diminished its power. Maisie did not want to share what she had found until she could be sure of its significance.

“I want to speak to Magnus Fisher,” said Maisie. “The police are sniffing around, looking into his past, who he’s been seen with, and when. I believe he’s a suspect in the murder of his wife, Lydia, so if I am to see him, then it must be soon.”

“Won’t D. I. Stratton wonder what you’re up to? I mean, ’e’s bound to find out that you’ve spoken to Fisher.”

“That’s true, but he also knows that I have been working on a missing-person case, and that Lydia Fisher may have had relevant information.” Maisie was thoughtful. “Yes, I’ll telephone Fisher now. Billy, what’s the number at the Cheyne Mews house?”

Billy passed his notebook to Maisie, who placed the call.

The maid answered the telephone. “The Fisher residence.”

Maisie smiled upon identifying the young maid’s voice. “Oh good morning. It’s Miss Dobbs here. How are you now?”

The maid warmed. “Oh, M’um. Thank you very much for asking, I’m sure. I’m getting over it all, though there’ve been a lot of people coming and going.”

“I’m sure there have. Now then, may I speak with Mr. Magnus Fisher, please?”

“I’m afraid he is not in residence, M’um. I could take a message.”

“Do you know where he is? I haven’t had a chance to convey my condolences yet.”

“Oh, yes, of course, M’um. Mr. Fisher is at the Savoy.”

“The Savoy? Thank you.”

“My, My, that was a little too easy,” Maisie remarked to Billy as she replaced the receiver. “He’s at the The Savoy Hotel, if you please.”

“Well, ’e’s not wastin’ any time, is ’e?”

“It’s a strange choice if he wants a measure of privacy, but on the other hand, the staff at the Savoy can keep the press at bay, which they’ll need to do if the maid keeps giving out his whereabouts.”

Maisie picked up the receiver again and placed a call to the hotel. She was surprised when she was connected.

“Magnus Fisher.”

“Oh, Mr. Fisher, I am surprised you were located so promptly.”

“I was at the desk. Who is this?”

“My name is Maisie Dobbs. First of all, please accept my condolences for your loss.”

“What’s this about?”

“Mr. Fisher, I am an investigator. I can say little until we meet in person. However, I am currently working on a case that may involve your late wife. I wonder if you might be able to meet with me this morning?”

“Are you working with the police?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ve piqued my curiosity. However, the police are keeping me very much in their sights. I’m currently unable to travel outside London. Where and when do you want to meet?”

“Let’s say”—Maisie consulted her watch—“in about an hour. Meet me on the Embankment, by Cleopatra’s Needle. I’ll be wearing a navy blue coat and a blue hat. Oh, and I wear spectacles, Mr. Fisher.”

“See you in an hour, Miss Dobbs.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fisher.”

“Putting on the fake specs again, Miss?”

Maisie reached into the top drawer of her desk and brought out a pewter case, which she opened, and then placed a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles on her nose.

“Yes, Billy. I’ve always found this one small change in appearance to be a useful tool. If a policeman follows Fisher and then makes a note of my description, he will most definitely remember the spectacles. And Stratton knows I do not require help with vision.”

“You sure Fisher is safe? I mean, look ’ow the weather’s turned again, and if it’s miserable, there won’t be many people walking along by the water. That man could push you in, and no one would be any the wiser. After all, ’e could be—”

“The killer? Don’t worry, Billy. You just continue working on the case map. Here are my index cards from this past two days.” Maisie reached for her coat. “I’ll take the underground—should be back by twelve.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

Maisie walked toward Warren Street station, thinking that the time alone in the office, and the task of adding more depth of information to the case map, would allow Billy to compose himself, now that his secret was out in the open. Though he might feel apprehensive, he was also free from the burden of guilt that had dragged at his spirit.

Maisie waved briefly to Jack Barker, the newspaper vendor, before going down to the trains. She traveled on the Northern Line to Charing Cross Embankment. The air was damp and cold as she exited the station and walked down toward the Thames. A drizzle that was not quite rain, yet more than a mist, dulled the day, forcing some passers-by to use umbrellas. Maisie pulled up her collar, quickly rubbed a handkerchief across the spectacles and turned left to walk along the Embankment toward Cleopatra’s Needle. The flagstones beneath her feet were wet and slippery and the Thames was a dirty gray. The river air smelled of smoke and rotting tidal debris.