Birds of a Feather (5 page)

“Yes, M’um.” Perkins took the card, placed it in her pinafore pocket, bobbed another half curtsey, and left the room.

Maisie watched the maid walk along the landing, stopping briefly to curtsey as Billy approached in the company of Mrs. Willis, who was looking at her watch. It was time for them to leave.

“Have you got everything, Billy?”

“Yes, Miss. In fact, Mrs. Willis knew where to find a recent photograph of Miss Waite. ’ere.” Billy opened his notebook and took out the photograph, which he handed to Maisie.

Charlotte was sitting on a white filigree cast-iron chair set in front of a rose garden, which Maisie suspected was at the rear of the house. She seemed to be what the gentlemen of the press might have termed a “flapper.” Her hair, which framed her face, was waved and drawn back into a low chignon at the nape of her neck. She wore a knee-length dress that appeared rather flimsy; a breeze had caught the hem the moment before the shutter snapped. Charlotte had made no move to press the garment down, and laughed into the camera. Maisie held the photo closer to scrutinize the face. If eyes were windows to the soul, then Charlotte was indeed troubled, for the eyes that looked at the camera seemed to be filled not with joy or amusement as the pose suggested, but with sorrow.

Maisie looked up. “Thank you, Mrs. Willis.” She turned to Billy. “If you’ve completed everything, we can talk back at the office. I’m sure Mrs. Willis has a lot to do.”

Mrs. Willis escorted them to the front door, where a maid waited with Maisie’s mackintosh and Billy’s overcoat. They were about to step outside when Maisie paused. “A quick question for you, Mrs. Willis. I have a sense that Miss Waite commands little respect in the household. Why is that?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, M’um,” said Mrs. Willis, who now seemed anxious to see Maisie and Billy inside their motor car, driving away.

“Mrs. Willis, in confidence. Tell me what you think.” Maisie inclined her head conspiratorially toward Mrs. Willis.

“Mr. Waite is respected by everyone who works for him. He gives back as much as he asks of those in his employ, and sometimes more. His loyalty to his staff earns loyalty in return. And that’s all I can say.”

Maisie and Billy thanked Mrs. Willis, left the house, and climbed into the motor car.

“Didn’t say much, did she?” said Billy, waving at the gatekeeper as they left.

“On the contrary, she told me a lot. It was an impertinent question, and, within the confines of what she
could
say, Mrs. Willis was quite forthcoming.”

Billy opened his notebook and began to speak, but Maisie silenced him with a hand gently placed on his arm and a finger to her lips. “No, not now. Allow the information we’ve gathered to sit and stew for a while. Just tell me one thing—the name and profession of the former fiancé.”

CHAPTER TWO

B
illy was already at the office in Fitzroy Square when Maisie arrived at eight o’clock the next morning. The spring rain had at last subsided, and now the early morning sunshine was mirrored in puddles remaining from yesterday’s downpour, casting dappled shadows across the square and playing upon fresh green leaves.

“Good morning, Billy.” Maisie looked at her assistant as she came into the office. “You look a bit drawn—is everything all right?”

“Yes, Miss. Well, not really. Every day I look out as the bus passes the labor exchange and the line ain’t gettin’ any shorter. I can count my lucky stars getting this job wiv you. You know, I’ve got the missus and three nippers to think about—the eldest is in school now—and what wiv this ol’ leg of mine—”

“You mustn’t worry, Billy. Not only are we fortunate in getting new business, but Maurice’s clients now know that they can trust his former assistant. If money’s a problem, Billy—”

“Oh, no, no, my wages are better ’ere than they were round the corner with old Sharpie. I just—”

“What, Billy?”

“You’re sure you need me?”

“Absolutely sure. Time and again you have proved that you are worth your weight in gold, which I would pay you if I could. If I have any criticism of your work, I will tell you.”

Billy gave her a wary grin.

“Is that all that’s bothering you, Billy?”

“That’s all, Miss.”

“Right then. Let’s see where we are with the Waite case.”

The sound of mail being pushed through the letterbox was a signal to Billy to get up from his desk. “Back in a minute, better see if there’s anything for us.”

Maisie frowned. She knew that even as he made his way downstairs, Billy was preparing to return to the room demonstrating the old Billy, the court jester with a heart of gold. It was Billy’s loyalty to her, and the link between him and Captain Simon Lynch, that had won him the job as her assistant—as well as his willingness to help her by working all hours on some of the more tedious surveillance tasks

In 1917 Corporal William Beale had been brought into the casualty clearing station where Maisie was assisting Captain Simon Lynch, the army doctor she been introduced to by her friend Priscilla, while she was at Girton College. Simon had declared his love for her and proposed marriage, and now they were working alongside each other. Billy Beale never forgot the man who saved his leg—and his life. And he never forgot the young nurse who tended to his wounds, instantly recognizing her years later when Maisie Dobbs became a tenant at the Warren Street premises where he was caretaker. Both she and Simon had been wounded subsequently when the casualty clearing station came under heavy artillery fire. She had recovered; Simon had not.

Maisie sat down at the table by the window, opened the file she had taken from her briefcase, and gestured for Billy to join her. He sat down, taking a plain lead pencil from the jam jar, and a large sheet of paper for them to diagram evidence details, thoughts, possibilities, and projections, a technique that they referred to as their “case map.”

“First of all,” said Maisie, “Waite will receive our contract and terms”—she consulted the watch pinned to the breast pocket of her new burgundy wool suit, and continued—“in about fifteen minutes.”

“And we know ’e’s got the money!” said Billy.

“That we do. Let’s do three things this morning, then split up. I want to map what our impressions were: of the house, the four people we met, and of Charlotte’s room. We’ll also look at the items we found while we were there.”

“And the grounds, Miss. Don’t forget all that ‘nose pointing out’ nonsense, and them lawns what look like they were clipped by a pair o’ nail scissors.”

“Good. You’re right, mustn’t forget that welcome! Anyway, after we’ve made a start, you can set to work on Charlotte’s address book, just checking on who’s where, and that it’s all current.”

“Yes, Miss. Just put some flesh on the bones, no need to knock on any doors yet. Where will you be going, Miss?”

“I am going to a branch of Waite’s International Stores. I thought I’d go to the one on Oxford Street, close to Tottenham Court Road. It was his first shop in London, and it’s his most important branch, next to the one in Harrogate, of course. The main offices of Waite’s are above the premises. With a bit of luck, I’ll see the man in his element.”

“Why do you think it’s called Waite’s
International
Stores, Miss?”

“I looked up a file of Maurice’s, which expanded on the information noted on the index card. I was actually looking for anything that would add to the comment about the severing of contact, but there was nothing there, so I’ll have to speak to Maurice about it. Anyway, when he added fruits and vegetables, other dry goods, and more from abroad to his butchery business, he slipped ‘International’ in between ‘Waite’s’ and ‘Stores’ and never looked back.”

“It must’ve been ’ard work for ’im, eh?”

“Most certainly, and of course life wasn’t easy at home, either. You heard his little monologue yesterday.”

“And who’s ’is wife?”

“According to Maurice’s file, Charlotte’s mother was a music-hall singer and small-time actress from Bradford. He met her there at the opening of his shop. Apparently Waite’s shop openings were always big events. Charlotte was born just”—Maisie raised an eyebrow—“seven months after the marriage.”

“Miss Arthur said that Mrs. Waite spends most of ’er time up in Leeds, at the ’ouse up there. And I made a note to check on ’er information that Charlotte is not with the mother, even though Miss Arthur said she’d already made sure of that.” Billy tapped at the points with his pencil.

“Good. I got the impression that Charlotte and her mother weren’t close. What do you think, Billy?”

Billy scratched the top of his ear where his hair was in need of a trim. “Well, what I thought was that Charlotte didn’t really fit in anywhere. There she was, living with that dad of ’ers, ‘Mr. Lord High and Mighty’ running ’er life, and at thirty-two, mind you. Most of ’er friends are married by now, so they ain’t got time to go out with the other girls like they used to. She’s sort of been left be’ind, ain’t she, Miss? Like so many, really. I mean, men they might’ve married are gone, killed in the war. What’s she supposed to do with ’erself all day? That father of ’er’s don’t think much of ’er, not by the sound of it. She’s really a spinster, all on her own.”

Maisie winced at Billy’s assessment of the situation. She was, after all, a spinster herself in those terms. “Good. Yes, good point,” she replied, thought for a moment, then opened her document case and removed the books and pamphlets found in Charlotte Waite’s room. She laid them out on the table.

“What do you make of it all, Miss?”

Maisie picked up the seal, then the scrap of paper. “Well, the ‘Ch. X’ is Charing Cross.”

“And ‘Ash’ could be Ashford, couldn’t it, Miss?”

Maisie nodded. “It’s all fitting together now, Billy. Let’s say this is in connection with the trains that go from Charing Cross to Ashford, where one has to change for the trains to—”

“Gawd, I don’t know. Apples?” Billy grinned.

“Appledore!”

“
Appledore?”

“Yes, I used to go there with my father sometimes. We’d go fishing on the canal near Iden Lock.” Maisie reached for the seal. “And that makes sense of this.”

“What’s that?”

“The seal from an envelope. Charlotte had probably received a letter from Camden Abbey, perhaps sent to her with the books and pamphlets, and as she began to read, she tore the seal from the envelope to mark her place.”

“So what do you think, Miss? Can you tell from this little lot where she’s gone off to?”

“It tells us that Charlotte was curious about the contemplative life. There’s something I need to look into. I may know someone who can help us.” Maisie gathered the items together and looked at her watch. “Let’s move on. We can’t allow one possibility to cloud our vision. Charlotte could have left these things to dupe her father. Or she could have left with such urgency as to forget them.” She stood up. “Right then. Charlotte’s run away before, but she’s always let her father know where she is, in one way or another. He’s assumed that she’s hiding from him this time. We have to question that assumption and consider other possibilities. Even if we take his account of her departure as truth, she may now be being held against her will, or she may have met with an accident. And of course we cannot rule out the possibility that she may have taken her own life. But let us begin by assuming that she has disappeared voluntarily, has been gone for several days and has deliberately covered her tracks. Why did she leave this time? Where is she? Has she run
from
something or
to
something—or
someone
? I want us to try to have a better feeling for what went on last Saturday, and how far we can believe Waite’s version of events. No need to move anything on the table, but just help me shift it over there a bit, so it’s in the middle of the room.”

Billy took one end of the table, while Maisie took the other, and they placed it where Maisie indicated.

“You can be Waite, so sit at this end.” Maisie pointed out the place where Billy should set his chair.

“I’ll need to shove me jacket up inside me cardigan, Miss, seeing as I ain’t got quite the middle that ’e ’as.”

“Pretend, Billy. Seriously, I want you to close your eyes, sit at the table, and truly imagine that you are Joseph Waite. I’ll go outside the door, give you a couple of minutes, then I’ll come in and sit down as if I’m Charlotte. For the purposes of this experiment, I
am
Charlotte.”

“Awright.” Billy frowned. “I’ll give it a go.”

Maisie nodded, and walked toward the door, but before reaching for the handle, she turned to her desk, took the
Times
from her briefcase, and dropped it on the table in front of him.

“You’ll probably be reading this.”

She left the room as Billy shifted uncomfortably in the seat. He closed his eyes, drew back his shoulders, tucked his legs underneath the chair so that his heels rode up and the balls of his feet supported the imaginary weight of his middle. His war wound nipped at his leg as he moved, but he ignored it. He puffed out his cheeks for just a few seconds, and imagined what it might be like to have built a successful enterprise to become a powerful man of commerce. Slowly he began to feel quite different, and realized he was getting just an inkling of the way in which Maisie used her knowledge of the body to gain an understanding of another person. He reached for the newspaper and snapped it open, feeling richer than he had felt in a good long while. And it surprised him that he felt a glimmer of an emotion that rarely surfaced in his being: anger.