Birds of a Feather

  “When we have both completed work on our respective cases, Inspector, certainly.”

  Stratton tipped his hat. “Until then, Miss Dobbs.”

  Maise smiled and inclined her head. “Until then, Inspector.” She made one last effort. “Inspector, I urge you to go back over the evidence that has led to Fisher’s arrest. You know better than to be pressured by the public’s wish to see a suspect behind bars. More time is needed, Inspector.”

  “We must agree to disagree, Miss Dobbs. Good-bye.”

  As she made her way back to Fitzroy Square, Maisie admonished herself for alienating Stratton. Then, reconsidering, she drew back her shoulders, and set forth at a brisk clip. No, she thought. He’s wrong. They’ve got the wrong man. And I’ll prove it!

  As Maisie lifted her head, she saw a flash of gold in the distance, over the heads that bobbed to and fro past her. It was Billy’s familiar shock of hair. He was walking—no, running— in her direction.

  “Billy,” she yelled, “Walk! Don’t run! Walk!”

  Still he came toward her in an ungainly stumbling lope that was more than a walk but not quite a run, as if one side of his body were intent on speed that the other simply could not match. Maisie in turn ran to him so that those observing the scene might have thought them lovers who had been separated by distance and time.

  “Billy, Billy, what is it? Take a deep breath, calm down, calm down.”

  Billy gasped for breath. “In ’ere, Miss. Let’s get off the street.” Billy jerked his head to the right, toward a side street.

  “Right. A deep breath, Billy, a deep breath.”

  Billy fought for air, his gas-damaged lungs heaving against his ribcage so that Maisie could see the steep rise and fall of his chest. He brought his chin down as if to retain more of the life-giving air that his body craved. “Miss . . . I thought I’d never find you . . . that you might’ve gone off with Stratton.”

  “What’s happened, Billy? What’s happened?” As she clutched at the cloth of Billy’s overcoat, knowledge flooded Maisie. “It’s my father, isn’t it, Billy? It’s Dad?”

  “Yes, Miss. Got to get you to Chelstone. ’e’s awright, comfortable, apparently.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Miss, stop. It’s awright, awright. Listen to me. It was an accident, with the ’orse this mornin’. Word just came from Mr. Carter. The mare was ’avin’ trouble, so Mr. Dobbs ’ad set up the ropes, you know.”

  “I know what they do, Billy.” Maisie was thinking clearly now, and began to walk into Charlotte Street, Billy limping behind her.

  “Well, anyway, something ’appened and ’e slipped, then something else ’appened and he got knocked out cold. Rushed to the ’ospital in Pembury, ’e was, for X-rays. Bad old do at ’is age.”

  “I want you to telephone the Waite residence. Cancel our appointment.”

  “Miss, you ain’t thinkin’ of goin’ on yer own, are ya? Not drivin’ all that way, bein’ as you’re not—”

  “Not what, Billy?” Maisie stopped, her eyes flashing at Billy. Yet as she looked at him, rivulets of perspiration oozing from his forehead and running across his cheekbones, tears sprang into the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. Thank you.”

  “ ’e’ll be awright, you’ll see. Strong as ’ouses, your dad is, Miss. But I reckon I’d better come with you, Miss.”

  “No, I haven’t the time to wait while you go to Whitechapel, and you can’t leave without letting your wife know.”

  “She’ll be awright, Miss. I can get on the dog’n’bone to the shop up the street. They just ’ad one put in. They’ll run along to ’er wiv a message.”

  Maisie shook her head. “I’m going alone. I need you here. There’s business to take care of. Have a rest, a cup of tea, and look after my business for me, Billy.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Maisie started the motor car as he closed the door for her.

  “Oh, and Billy, your nose is bleeding again. And I’ll tell you now, Billy Beale, that if I ever learn that you are at that stuff again, I will box your ears for you!”

  Billy watched Maisie screech into Warren Street on her way to Kent, knowing that she would push the MG to maximum speed whether on a London road or along a country lane.

  Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

  Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;

  And charging along like troops in a battle . . .

  It had been Maisie’s favorite poem as a child, when her mother would set the small, dark-haired girl on her knee, then rhythmically recite the verse, tapping her foot so that Maisie felt propelled forward by the momentum of movement, imagining that she really was in a railway carriage.

  All of the sights of the hill and the plain

  Fly as thick as the driving rain . . .

  Pressing the MG as fast as it would go, Maisie sped toward Pembury. Rain was now coming down in thick icicle-like slants across the windscreen. As she moved closer to see the road, wiping condensation from the glass with the back of her hand, her heart was beating furiously against her chest. And still the poem echoed in her mind.

  Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,

  All by himself and gathering brambles . . .

  And in her mind’s eye Maisie saw the small kitchen at the terraced house in Lambeth, where she had spent the years before her mother’s passing. She looked again into the kind, sparkling eyes, then over to the stove, where her father leaned against the wall while listening to his wife and his girl laughing together. So long ago; it was so long ago.

  Here is a cart run away in the road

  Lumping along with a man and a load;

  And here is a mill and there is a river;

  Each a glimpse and gone forever!

  Her mother was gone forever, Simon was gone forever. What if her father was lost, too? Maisie cried out as she whirled though Tonbridge and on toward her destination.

  Swinging in through the broad driveway, Maisie saw the large brick-built hospital in front of her, the tall chimney at the far side belching smoke. She remembered passing the hospital in an earlier time, when her companion had told her that if the chimney was smoking it meant that amputated limbs were being burned. Maisie had rolled her eyes, sure that she was being teased. But now the chimney loomed over the hospital like an evil genie who would grant no wishes. She parked the motor car quickly and ran toward the main building.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Francis Dobbs. He was brought in this morning, injured. Where is he?”

  The uniformed porter was clearly used to dealing with the emotions of breathless relatives, but at the same time he would not be rushed.

  “Let me see.” He ran his finger down a list of names. But Maisie could not wait, and snatched the clipboard, scanning the names for her father.

  “Ward 2B. Where is that? Where can I find him?”

  “Easy up, Miss. Visiting time’s over, you know.”The porter reclaimed his clipboard.

  “Just tell me where to find him!”

  “All right, all right. Keep your hair on! Now then, here you go.”

  The porter stepped from his office and directed Maisie with his hand. She thanked him, then ran toward the staircase.

  They must have made all these hospitals the same. Maisie recognized the building though she had never set foot within its walls before. The tiled corridors, disinfectant-smelling staircase, long wards and iron-framed beds were all so reminiscent of the London Hospital in Whitechapel, where she had enlisted for VAD service in 1915.

  She entered the cloister-like ward, with two lines of beds facing one another, not even one-eighth of an inch out of place. She knew that each day the nurses would go along the ward with a length of string and a yardstick, ensuring that all beds were positioned precisely, so that during her rounds Matron would see a ward that completely adhered to her high standards of order. Not one patient, nurse, bed, or bottle would be anywhere but where Matron expected them to be. Amid this order, as the slowly se
tting late-afternoon sun glanced off the ward’s cream-painted walls, Maisie searched for her father.

  “Follow me, Miss Dobbs,” instructed the Staff Nurse, who checked the watch pinned to her uniform in the same way that Maisie still consulted her own watch every day. “He’s comfortable, though not yet recognizing anyone.”

  “You mean he’s in a coma?”

  “Doctor expects him to be much better tomorrow. The other gentleman hasn’t left his side. Allowed to stay on doctor’s orders.” The nurse whispered as they moved along the ward, to a bed set apart from the others, with screens pulled around to ensure privacy so that other patients would not see the man who lay unconscious.

  “What other gentleman?”

  “The older gentleman. The doctor.”

  “Ah, I see,” replied Maisie, relieved that Maurice Blanche was here.

  The nurse pulled back the screens. Tears welled up in Maisie’s eyes as she quickly went to her father’s bedside and took his hand in hers. She nodded at Maurice, who smiled but did not move toward her.

  Leaning over her father’s body, which was covered with a sheet and standard-issue green hospital blanket, Maisie rubbed her father’s veined hands as if the warmth she generated might cause him to wake. She reached across to touch his forehead, then his cheek. A thick white bandage had been bound around his head, and Maisie could see dried blood where a deep wound had been tended. Looking down at his body, she saw a small frame over his legs. Fracture? Remembering the smoking chimney, she hoped so.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Maurice. How did you manage to be allowed to stay?”

  “I informed the ward sister that I was a doctor, so I was allowed to remain. Apparently, they are a bit short staffed and we both thought it best that your father be attended at all times.”

  “You must be tired, but thank you, thank you so much.” Maisie continued to massage her father’s hands.

  “Those of us who have reached our more mature years know the value of a nap, Maisie, and we can indulge ourselves without the comfort of pillow or bed.”

  “Tell me what happened, Maurice.”

  “The mare was experiencing some difficulty. According to your father, she was presenting incorrectly. Your father instructed Lady Rowan to summon the vet. Of course he was out on a farm somewhere. It’s lambing season, as you know. In the meantime your father was following all recognized procedures and had requested a length of rope to maneuver the foal into a better position for the birth. Lady Rowan was there, as were two of the farmworkers. From what I understand, your father lost his footing on hay that had become damp and soiled, and fell awkwardly. His head connected with the stone floor, which is bad enough, but a heavy implement that one of the farmworkers had left standing against the stall fell and struck your father.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “This morning, about half past nine or so. I came as soon as I was summoned, tended his immediate wounds, then deferred to Dr. Miles from the village, who arrived straightaway, followed by the vet. Your father was brought here immediately.”

  Maisie watched the rise and fall of her father’s chest beneath the white and blue stripes of hospital-issue pajamas. She had only ever seen her father in his old corduroy trousers, a collarless shirt, waistcoat, and somewhat flamboyant neckerchief. Though a country groom since the war, on a working day he still looked more like a London costermonger, ready to sell vegetables from his horse and cart. But now he was pale and silent.

  “Will he be all right?”

  “The doctor thinks that the loss of consciousness is temporary, that he’ll be with us soon enough.”

  “Oh God, I hope he’s right.” Maisie looked at her hands, now entwined with her father’s. Silence seeped into the space between Maisie and her former teacher and mentor. She knew that he was watching her, that he was asking questions silently, questions that no doubt he was waiting to put to her in words.

  “Maisie?”

  “Yes, Maurice? I think you want to ask me something, don’t you?”

  “Indeed, yes.” Maurice leaned forward. “Tell me, what is at the heart of the division between yourself and your father? You visit rarely, though when you do you are pleased to see him. And though there is conversation between father and daughter, I see none of the old camaraderie, the old ‘connection’ in your relationship. You were once so very close.”

  Maisie nodded. “He’s always been so strong, never ill. I thought nothing could stop him, ever.”

  “Not like illness stopped your mother, or injury stopped Simon?”

  “Yes.” Maisie brought her attention back to her father’s hands. “I don’t know how it started, but it’s not all my fault, you know!”

  Blanche looked up intently. “Since our very early days together, when you were barely out of childhood, I can safely say that I do not think I have ever heard you sound like a child until now. You sound quite petulant, my dear.”

  Maisie sighed. “It’s Dad, too. He seems to be drawing back from me. I don’t know what came first, my work keeping me in London, even at weekends, or my father always finding jobs to do. He’s preoccupied with other things when I visit. Of course he loves me, and there’s always a warm welcome, but then there’s . . . nothing. It’s as if seeing me is troublesome to him. As if I’m not part of him anymore.”

  Maurice said nothing for a while, then asked, “Have you given it much thought?”

  “Of course I’ve thought about it, but then I just put it out of my mind. I suppose I keep hoping that I’m imagining it, that he’s just immersed in Lady Rowan’s ambition to raise a Derby winner, or that I’m too caught up in a case.”

  “But if you had to guess, if you brought your intuition into play, what would you say—truly—is causing the change?”

  “I . . . I don’t really know.”

  “Oh, Maisie, I think you do know. Come on, my dear, we have worked together for too long, you and I. I have seen you grow, seen you strive, seen you wounded, seen you in love, and I have seen you grieve. I know when you are evading the truth. Tell me what you think.”

  Kneading her father’s hands, she spoke quietly. “I think it has to do with my mother. I remind him of her, you see. I have her eyes, her hair—even these.” She pulled at a tendril of hair, then pushed it back into the chignon. “In just a few years I’ll be the same age as she was when she first became ill, and I look just like her. He adored her, Maurice. I think he only kept going because of me. The fact is that he can’t see me without seeing her, though I’m not her. I’m different.”

  Maurice nodded. “The pain of being reminded is a sharp sword. But there’s more, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose there is.” Maisie swallowed deeply. “He sent me away, didn’t he? To Ebury Place. And I know, I know, it all worked out for the best, and I wouldn’t be where I am today if he hadn’t, but—”

  “But you can’t forget.”

  “No.”

  “And what of forgiveness?”

  “I love my father, Maurice.”

  “No one is questioning your love. I ask again: What of forgiveness?”

  “I suppose . . . yes, I suppose some resentment still lingers. When I think about it, even though we made up and he would do anything for me. I . . . I suppose I am still upset, in a deep part of me, right in here.” Maisie placed her hand against her ribs.

  Silence filtered into the air around them once again, drowning out the echoes of Maisie’s whispered confession until Maurice spoke again. “May I make a suggestion, Maisie?.”

  She nodded and replied quietly, “Yes.”

  “You must speak with your father. Not to him, but with him. You must create a new path. You do not need me to tell you that, strong as he is, your father is not getting any younger. This accident will have weakened him, though I expect he will enjoy a full recovery. I observed you enter this ward dragging your guilt, regret, and—yes—fear with you, fear that you might have lost your chance. But you haven’t lost it at
all. Use your training, Maisie, your heart, your intuition and your love for your father to forge a new, even stronger, bond.”

  Maisie watched Maurice as he spoke.

  “I feel so . . . weak, Maurice. I should have known better than to allow the situation to continue.”

  “Should have? Should, Maisie? Fortunately you are a human being, and it is recognizing our own fallibility that enables us to do our work.” Blanche stood up from his chair and rubbed his back and neck. “Now then, it’s getting late.”

  “Oh I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you.”

  Blanche held up his hand to silence her. “No, I wanted to remain here until you arrived. But now, I must report back to Lady Rowan. I suspect that our patient will improve with your presence.”

  “Thank you, Maurice.”

  Blanche inclined his head, and took up his coat and hat, which had been placed on the back of the chair.

  “Maurice, I wonder if I might speak with you tomorrow about a case.”

  “Waite?”

  “It’s gone a bit further than that, really. I’m now convinced that the Coulsden and Cheyne Mews murders, and perhaps one more, are connected with the Waite case.”

  “You will need to return to Chelstone later, perhaps after doctor’s rounds tomorrow morning, or before if Matron learns that you are here. Come to the Dower House when you are ready.”

  “Thank you.” Maisie looked at her father again, then turned back to Maurice. “You know, it’s strange, but I believe the murders have to do with being reminded, and remembering . . . and, now that I think about it, with forgiveness, too.”

  Blanche smiled and drew back the screen to leave. “I am not at all surprised. As I have said many times, my dear, each case has a way of shining a light on something we need to know about ourselves. Until tomorrow.”

  Maisie took Maurice’s seat at her father’s bedside, ready to continue the vigil until he regained consciousness. In the distance she heard a receding footfall as her mentor left the ward. She was alone with her thoughts, and though she held on to her father’s hands firmly, and made a commitment to better times together in the future, she was wondering about the murdered women, and about Charlotte.