Birds of a Feather

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “We cannot get away from the fact that we have identified a possible— and I must emphasize possible—link between the murders of two women and Charlotte Waite’s disappearance.”

  Billy blew out his cheeks.“Gawd, Miss, when you put it like that . . .”

  “Quite.”

  “Mind you,” said Billy, changing position in the chair to stretch out his leg. “Mind you, I looked at the address book again, and that first woman, you know, the murder victim in Coulsden, well, she ain’t in there. I checked under the P’s for Philippa, and under the S’s for Sedgewick. So if Miss Waite knew ’er, she’s in the other address book.”

  “Good point. We need to find out more about Mrs. Sedgewick. Look, if you’ve got time when you get out of the interview with Stratton and Caldwell, see what else you can dig up on the Sedgewick murder, go through the newspapers again. Oh, that reminds me— don’t let Sergeant Caldwell annoy you, Billy. Rise above it, and remember it’s his job to goad you a bit.” Maisie was thoughtful, “I wish there was a way you could get chatty with Inspector Stratton while you’re there.”

  Billy laughed. “I don’t think it’s me ’e wants to get chatty wiv, Miss.”

  Maisie blushed, and stood up to view the case map.

  “So you ’aven’t ’eard from your Dame Constance yet, Miss?”

  “No, not yet. One cannot expect to hear from a cloistered nun by telephone. But I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I’ll hear by this afternoon’s post. Dame Constance will have replied immediately—if she’s half as precise as she used to be. My letter to her would have arrived by yesterday morning, so assuming her reply went by the afternoon post, it should arrive today.”

  “And you’ll be off to Kent on Monday, then?”

  “Perhaps earlier. I’ve spoken to Dr. Blanche and will see him first about Waite.”

  “You’ll remember to say ’ello to Mr. Dobbs for me, won’t you?”

  Maisie looked at her watch and nodded. “Yes, of course I will, Billy. You should be getting along now, you don’t want to keep Inspector Stratton waiting.”

  Billy scraped his chair back and winced slightly as his foot dragged along the floor.

  Maisie pretended not to notice, but as Billy pulled on his overcoat she voiced her concern. “Are you sure I’m not leaving you with too much on your plate? I should only be away for a couple of days, but I’ll cut my journey short if you aren’t feeling up to it.”

  “Nah, Miss. I told you last week, I’m much better now. Loads of energy, and the pain ain’t as bad as it was. Tell you the truth, I reckon it was the weather rusting the shrapnel they left in me legs.”

  Maisie smiled. “Very well, Billy.”

  Maisie began to collect her papers, which she placed under lock and key in her desk drawer. She consulted her watch and had just gathered her mackintosh, hat, and gloves, when the bell above the office door rang out as someone tugged the brass bell-pull by the outer door. Maisie wondered who could be summoning her at this inopportune moment. The thought crossed her mind that Dame Constance might have sent word via telegram. She ran downstairs.

  “Why, Mrs. Beale, what a surprise!” Maisie was amazed to see Billy’s wife standing on the doorstep, holding one child by the hand and the other on her hip. She had met Doreen Beale only once before, at Christmas when she delivered gifts to the Beale’s two-up-two-down terraced home in Whitechapel. Maisie had suspected then that this small, sturdy countrywoman did not quite fit into the close-knit neighborhood, as she came from Sussex and did not share the rough-and-tumble language or raucous humor of the people her Cockney husband had grown up with.

  “Oh, I hope you don’t mind, Miss Dobbs, me coming here without sending word first, but I wonder if you could spare me a moment. I know Mr. Beale isn’t here. I watched him leave. I didn’t want him to know I’d come to see you.”

  “Of course. Do come up to the office.” Maisie stood back to allow Doreen Beale to enter the building.

  “Will the pram be all right, you know, left out here?”

  “I’m sure it will, Mrs. Beale. I confess, I’ve never seen children in these parts, but I think it’s safe. Come in; let’s go up to the office.” Maisie smiled at the toddler, who hid his head in the folds of his mother’s coat, and then at the baby, who copied her brother, turning her head into the coat’s upper sleeve, which, Maisie noticed, was already damp with dribble.

  She pulled out a chair for Billy’s wife, and then took some plain white paper from her desk, which she put on the floor with the jam jar of colored pencils.

  “There you are, you can draw me a train!” Maisie smiled again at the little boy with an elflike cap of white-blond hair, who looked up at his mother.

  “Go on, Bobby, make a nice train.”

  With one child occupied and the other beginning to fall asleep in her mother’s arms, Maisie smiled at Doreen Beale. “Now then, Mrs. Beale, what can I do for you? Is something wrong with Billy?”

  The woman’s eyes reddened, which accentuated her fair skin. Maisie noticed that the light blue veins at her temples had become swollen as she fought back tears.

  “Oh, Mrs. Beale, whatever is the matter? What is it?”

  Maisie reached out to the woman, then came around the desk to place an arm around her shoulder. The baby began to whimper, and the little boy stopped drawing and seemed frozen on the floor with his thumb in his mouth. Tears began to well in his eyes, as he mirrored his mother’s countenance.

  Doreen Beale composed herself, and turned to her son with a smile.

  “Come on, young Bobby, draw a nice picture for your daddy.” She stood up from her chair, and with her head indicated for Maisie to walk to the window with her. “Little ears—” she whispered. “It’s Billy, Miss Dobbs. I thought you might be able to tell me what’s wrong with him.”

  “Whatever I can do—” Maisie began, but was cut off by Doreen Beale, who clearly needed to shed her burden.

  “You see, my Billy used to be your solid sort. No tempers, no ups and downs. Even just after the war when we first started walking out together—we were both young then, of course—but even after all he went through, he was always so, you know, straight as a die. Like I said, no moods or tempers.” She moved slightly to reposition the child on her hip. “Well, just lately, in the last few months, all that’s changed. Now, I know his leg has been giving him trouble again—it never went away, really—and that got him down, you know. It wears you out, that sort of nagging pain.”

  Maisie nodded, but did not speak. Doreen Beale took a handkerchief from the pocket of her plain brown coat and rubbed a dewdrop of moisture that had accumulated at the end of her nose. She sniffed and rubbed again.

  “One minute he’s all over the place, doing jobs around the house, playing with the children, you know. He’s like a bumblebee, off to work, home again, going over to our allotment to get some vegetables— hardly makes time even to eat. Then it seems that just as quickly he comes down like a lead balloon, and even his face looks gray. And I know it’s his leg that’s at the bottom of it all. And the—you know— the memories, I suppose.” Doreen Beale sniffed and blew her nose again. “Oh, excuse me, Miss Dobbs, for all this. My mother always said that whatever you do, you should never take on so in front of your children.”

  Maisie was quiet for a moment, then spoke. “I have to say, Mrs. Beale, that I’ve noticed changes in Billy’s behavior, too. I’ve also been worried, so I’m glad you felt able to speak to me about it. You must be very concerned.”

  Doreen Beale nodded. “Billy’s a lovely dad to the children, and a good provider, always has been. And he’s a diamond to me, you know, a real diamond. Not like some of them I see. But, I just don’t know what wrong with him. And the terrible thing is, that I’m afraid to ask again.”

  “What happened when you asked before?”

  “Oh, he says, ‘I’m awright, love,’ and then goes off and does something. Then, of course, he used to stay after work fo
r a half a pint with his friends of a Friday night. Like I said, he’s not like some of them— just one half-pint a week, my Billy. But now he’s home late two or three nights a week, sometimes full of beans, and sometimes with a face as long as a week. He was out Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, not back home until long after seven.”

  Maisie tried not to show alarm. “He was late Tuesday and Wednesday?”

  “Yes, Miss, though I don’t blame you, even though you’d asked him to work late.”

  Maisie did not reveal her surprise. She waited for a moment before asking, “Mrs. Beale, would you like me to speak to Billy?”

  “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

  Maisie 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.”