Birds of a Feather

  “Did he come here again?”

  “Never. And I would have known about it if he had.”

  “And she never took you into her confidence, about the reason for his visit?”

  “No. Seemed to me like he wanted to make her as miserable as he was.”

  “Hmmm. Mrs. Hicks, I know I’ve already asked you this, but I must be sure: Do you really think that Mrs. Thorpe’s death was caused by someone else?”

  The housekeeper hesitated, turning her wedding ring around on her finger repeatedly before replying.

  “Yes, I do. There is some wavering in my heart. And I can’t be sure because I wasn’t here. But to take her own life? I do doubt it very much, very much indeed. She seemed to be on a mission to help people, especially those men who’d been to war, the ones who were just boys, wounded boys.”

  The clock on the mantelpiece began to strike a quarter to twelve.

  “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Hicks. You have been very helpful once again.”

  Mrs Hicks took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her moist eyes.

  Maisie stood and placed an arm around the housekeeper’s shoulder. “Oh, Mrs. Hicks, you must miss her very much.”

  “Oh, I do, Miss Dobbs. I do miss her very much. Mrs. Thorpe was a lovely, kind woman, and too young to die. I haven’t even had the heart to send her clothes away, like Mr. Thorpe’s children told me to do.”

  Maisie felt a sensation of touch, as if another hand had gently been placed upon her own as it lay on Mrs. Hicks shoulder. A picture of Rosamund had formed in her mind.

  “Mrs. Hicks, was Mrs. Thorpe in mourning attire when she died?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she was. Her nice black dress, very proper, yet fashionable. She wasn’t a dowdy one, Mrs. Thorpe, always beautifully turned out.”

  “Was she buried in—”

  “The dress? Oh no, I couldn’t allow that, not going into the cold ground in her widow’s weeds. No, I made sure she was in her lovely silk dressing gown. Like a sleeping beauty, she was. No, the dress she was wearing is in the wardrobe. I put it away as soon as I’d dressed her. Didn’t want strangers putting clothes on her so I dressed her myself. I thought I should throw it out, the black dress, but I couldn’t bring myself to.”

  “May I see the garment, please?”

  Mrs Hicks seemed surprised at the request, but nodded. “Well, of course, Miss Dobbs. Through here.”

  Mrs. Hicks led the way into the bedroom, where she opened a mahogany wardrobe and took out a black low-waisted dress in fine wool with a silk sash that matched silk binding at the neckline and cuffs. There were two elegant patch pockets on the bodice, each rimmed with black silk.

  Maisie held up the dress by the hanger, then walked to the bed and laid the garment out in front of her.

  “And the dress has not been cleaned since?”

  “No, I put it straight in the wardrobe, with mothballs of course.”

  Maisie nodded and turned to the dress again. As Mrs. Hicks moved to open the window to “let some air in here,” Maisie reached into the left pocket and searched inside carefully. Nothing. She leaned over and looked down into the right pocket and again reached inside. Something pricked at the pillowed skin on the underside of her fingertips. Maintaining contact, with her other hand Maisie reached into her own pocket for a clean handkerchief, which she opened before carefully pulling out the object that had so lightly grazed her fingertips. The soft white feather of a fledgling. She inspected her catch briefly before placing it in the waiting handkerchief, which she quickly returned to her jacket pocket.

  “Everything all right, Miss Dobbs?”

  “Yes, it’s lovely. Such a shame to waste a beautiful dress, yet it’s tinged with so much grief.”

  “I thought the same myself. I should’ve burned it, really I should. Perhaps that’s what I’ll do.”

  The dress might be evidence, and must not be lost. Maisie cautioned the housekeeper, careful not to cause alarm. “Oh no, don’t do that. Please keep it—look, I think I know someone who could make good use of the dress. Shall I let you know?”

  The housekeeper nodded. “Well, it is too good to destroy. I’ll keep it until I hear from you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hicks. You’ve been most kind, especially as I came unannounced and on short notice.”

  “Oh, but you weren’t unannounced. Dr. Dene said to help you in any way I could. That you were completely trustworthy and acting in Mrs. Thorpe’s best interests. You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for your lunch.”

  “How did you know?”

  “It was just a good guess, Miss Dobbs. Dr. Dene seemed a bit too sparky when I told him I had some information for you, as if he quite liked the idea of speaking to you again himself. Now, it’s none of my business, and it’s not how it would have been done in my day, not when Mr. Hicks and I were walking out together. But I thought he might invite you to have a spot of lunch with him today. He had that sound in his voice.”

  Maisie blushed. “And what sound is that, Mrs. Hicks?”

  “Oh, you know. That sound. The one that a gentleman has when he’s pleased with himself.”

  Maisie suppressed a smile and said good-bye to Mrs. Hicks. Though she was looking forward to lunch with Andrew Dene, she was also anxious to be alone, to spread out the index cards that she had made notes on, to assess what this morning’s gathering of information meant. The picture was becoming clearer, as if each conversation were a series of brushstrokes adding color and depth to a story that was now unfolding quite rapidly. She had three feathers, evidence that the three deaths were linked, and that Rosamund Thorpe, too, had most definitely been murdered.

  She drove down the hill to meet Andrew Dene, by the fishing boats at the place where the old horse turned the winch that brought the boats ashore, wishing she could get back to London, yet feeling guilty for wishing because of her father’s need for her. She was anxious to sit with Billy at the incident table with all their clues, suspicions, evidence, hunches, and scribbles laid out in front of them. She wanted to find the key, the answer to her question: What was the connection between three small white feathers, three dead women and their murderer? And how was Joseph Waite involved? She felt for the handkerchief in her pocket, and patted it.

  “Thank you, Rosamund,” she said, as she placed her hand on the steering wheel again.

  Maisie parked the car at the bottom of the High Street, to much attention by passersby. As she walked along the seafront, where seagulls and pigeons followed pedestrians in the hope that a breadcrumb or two would be dropped, she made a mental note to ask Billy why he couldn’t stand pigeons.

  The weather was crisp, but fine enough for Andrew Dene and Maisie to walk to the pier after a quick fish-and-chips lunch. The sun was higher in the sky and had it been warmer, one might have thought it summer.

  “I cannot believe you removed all that lovely batter before eating the fish!” Andrew Dene teased Maisie.

  “I love the fish, but don’t really care for batter. Mind you, the chips were tasty.”

  “But you fed most of them to the seagulls, and they’re fat enough already!”

  They walked in silence. Maisie looked at her watch once again.

  “Do you know how many times in one minute you’ve looked at your watch? I know you can’t find my company that tedious. You should break yourself of the habit.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Maisie’s eyes widened. She had never met a man of such impertinence. “I was going to say that I ought to be turning around, to get to my motor by—”

  “Half past one? Ish? Yes, I haven’t forgotten. Have you made any headway today, Miss Dobbs?”

  “I’ve certainly gleaned more information, Doctor. It’s putting the pieces together in a logical form that’s the challenge. Sometimes it’s guesswork all the way.”

  “Anything more I can do to help?” They were strolling back to the car, Maisie consciously keeping her hands deep in the pockets of her
raincoat, holding tight to the linen handkerchief that held the third feather. She would not look at her watch again until she was well away from Andrew Dene.

  “No . . . yes, yes there is, actually. Tell me, Dr. Dene, if you were to name one thing that made the difference between those who get well quickly and those who don’t, what would it be?”

  “Phew. Another simple question from Maisie Dobbs!”

  “I’m serious.”

  “And so am I. It’s a tricky one, and one that you are probably more qualified to answer than I. You were a nurse and, more important, you have training in psychological matters.”

  “I’d like your opinion. Please, take a stab at it.” Maisie turned toward him as she walked, challenging Dene to respond.

  “Well, if I were to name one thing, it would be acceptance.”

  “Acceptance? But doesn’t that stop the injured or wounded from trying to get better?”

  “Ah, now you’re playing devil’s advocate, aren’t you? In my opinion acceptance has to come first. Some people don’t accept what has happened. They think, ‘Oh, if only I hadn’t walked up that street when I did,’ or in a case like your father’s: ‘If only I’d known the ground was that wet and that Fred, or whatever his name was, had left his tools in the way.’ They are stuck at the point of the event that caused the injury.”

  “Yes, I think I know what you mean.”

  “So, in the case of the soldiers who find it difficult to move on— and of course, some have had terrible injuries that all the therapeutic assistance in the world can’t help—but those who find it difficult to accept are stuck in time, they keep thinking back to when it happened. And it’s not so much, ‘Oh, I wish I’d never enlisted.’ In fact most say, ‘At least I went,’ but instead it’s a case of ‘If only I’d ducked, jumped when I could have, run a bit faster, gone back for my friend.’ And of course, it all gets mixed up with the guilt of actually surviving when their pals didn’t.”

  “So what’s the answer?”

  Dene stopped as they came alongside the MG, and Maisie leaned on her car, facing the Channel, her face warmed by the sun.

  “I wish I had one, but, I would say that it’s threefold: One is accepting what has happened. Three is having a picture, an idea of what they will do when they are better, or improved. Then in the middle, number two is a path to follow. For example, from what I’ve heard about your father, he’ll make a good recovery: He’s accepted that the accident happened, he has a picture of what the future holds for him when he’s better—ensuring that the colt is in tip-top condition ready for training at Newmarket—and in the middle he’s already aware of the steps that he’ll take. At first he’ll only be able to stand for a minute or two, then he’ll use crutches, move on to walking sticks, and then the casts will come off. Dr. Simms will give him instructions as to what not to do, and the sort of activities that will set him back.”

  “I see.”

  “There are gray areas,” Maisie resisted the urge to look at her watch again as Andrew Dene went on. “For example, if we take Mr. Beale— oops, you had better get going, hadn’t you, Miss Dobbs?” Andrew Dene opened the door of the MG for Maisie.

  “Thank you, Dr. Dene. I enjoyed our lunch.”

  “Yes, I did too. I look forward to seeing your father at All Saints’ soon.”

  “ I’ll be in touch with the administrator as soon as I can confirm the arrangements.”

  “Right you are, Miss Dobbs.”

  Phew! What a character he is! Still, Maisie found Dene to be interesting, engaging, challenging—and fun. He was able to laugh at himself. But there was something else about him, something that nagged at her, that she both liked and found confusing at the same time: He seemed to know who she was. Not by name. Not by accomplishment or by profession. No. There was more than that to her identity. Andrew Dene understood her roots. Even if he had never been privy to her story, Maisie knew that he understood her.

  Following her father’s accident, and the talks at the hospital with Maurice and later her father, Maisie had been able to recollect more of the times spent with her mother. She remembered being in the kitchen, a girl of about nine. Her mother had been telling her the story of how she’d met Maisie’s father and known straight away that Frankie Dobbs was the one for her. “I set my hat for him there and then, Maisie, there and then.” And she’d laughed, wiping the back of her sudsy hand across her forehead to brush back ringlets of black hair that had fallen into her eyes.

  Maisie wondered about the business of setting one’s hat for a man, and how a woman of her age might go about doing such a thing.

  As she drove along, up over the ridge toward Sedlescombe, her thoughts shifted to Joseph Waite and the many tragic events that had befallen him. A father and brother killed in mining accidents, a wife dead in childbirth, a son lost to war, and an estranged daughter whom he tried to control without success. Hadn’t Lydia Fisher indicated to Billy that Charlotte had been something of a social butterfly? But as she passed into Kent at the boundary near Hawkhurst, Maisie checked herself, and the certain pity she had begun to feel for Joseph Waite. Yes, she felt pity. But was it pity for a man who had stabbed three women, quite literally, in cold blood?

  Perhaps Charlotte Waite had the answer. Tomorrow she would be able to judge Charlotte for herself. Was she, as her father believed, a ‘wilting lily’? Or, was she, as Lydia Fisher had intimated to Billy, a habitual bolter? Magnus Fisher’s account did not help. But each narrator’s story revealed only one perspective, one representation of the person that Charlotte revealed herself to be in their company. Where did the truth lie? Who was Charlotte, really?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Thursday greeted Kent with driving rain and howling winds. Maisie looked out at the weather from the cozy comfort of the Groom’s Cottage, shivering but not at all surprised.

  “Typical! Bring in the clouds for a drive to the marshes!”

  Today she would make her way across Kent again and on through the relentless gray of the marshlands, where people—if she saw any— would be rushing along with heads bent, anxious to get to and fro from work or errands. It was a day when locals tried not to venture outside and even farmworkers found jobs to do in the barn rather than out in the fields. Today she would finally meet Charlotte Waite.

  “Ugh,” uttered Maisie as she ran to the MG.

  George joined her, wearing the sort of foul-weather clothing one usually associated with fishermen.

  “Going to catch a trout for tea, George?”

  “No, Miss. I’d’ve thought catching things was more in your line of work.”

  “I deserved that, George.” Maisie laughed as George lifted the bonnet to turn on the petrol pump, the first of five steps to start the MG. “Thank you for coming out.”

  “Saw you running across in this rain, Miss, and wanted to make sure you got off safely. Pity you’ve got to go somewhere today, so you mind how you go, Miss. Take them corners nice and easy.”

  “Don’t worry, George.”

  “Know what time you’ll be back? Just so’s I know?”

  “I won’t be back to Chelstone today. After Romney Marsh, I’m off to Pembury to visit Mr. Dobbs, and afterwards straight on to London. I expect to return to Kent as soon as I can to see my father.” Maisie waved good-bye to George, who patted the back of the MG with his hand before running into the garage and out of the rain.

  Apple orchards that were filled with blossom only yesterday were now sodden and sorry. Tall cherry trees bent over and the branches of roadside elder laden with bloom seemed almost to ache with the task of standing tall. Maisie hoped that the storm would pass, that the trees and land would dry quickly, and that spring, her favorite season in Kent, would be restored to its resplendent richness soon.

  As she maneuvered the MG, Maisie reflected upon her visit to see her father the day before. She had entered the ward to see Frankie at the far end of the column of beds, straining forward in his sitting-up position to greet her as
she approached.

  “How are you, Dad?”

  “Better every day, expect to be up and about soon.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve just spoken to Dr. Simms, and he says that you should have two weeks convalescence by the sea before returning home, and even then, you shouldn’t be putting any weight on your right leg at all.”

  Frankie was about to protest, then looked at his daughter. “You’ve got a bit more color in your cheeks, my girl, and you’re looking more rested.”

  It was true, even Maisie had noticed that the gray rings usually etched under her eyes had diminished, her hair seemed more lustrous, and she felt much better, though she’d had so much on her mind that she hadn’t even noticed feeling below par in the first place. It was Maurice who pinpointed a possible reason for Maisie’s fatigue: “You’ve taken something on, Maisie. You’ve absorbed something of whatever was held inside the three women. And though being a sponge can aid in your work, it can also hinder, for becoming one with the subjects of your investigation does not necessarily help you.”

  During her visit more was revealed to Maisie, more wounds were healed, more firm footing added to the ground as father and daughter tentatively made their way forward. As her reflections became illuminated by the light of understanding, so she felt a certain resentment lift, enabling her to look back on the past more kindly, with a little more compassion. And as she made her way toward Camden Abbey, she thought of Lydia, Philippa, and Rosamund, her thoughts coming back time and time again to who might not have been able to forgive them, and what it was they might have done to warrant such deep, unrelenting anger. An anger laced with a passion that led to murder.

  She was close to Camden Abbey when the rain seemed to become lighter and for a moment it seemed as if the sun might manage to push its way through leaden clouds scudding across an already purplish gray sky. But that was the way of the marshes. The promise of light made it seem as if the elements were holding their collective breath. Then the observer realized that such a breath was only a minute’s respite before it started blowing again even harder, a biting wind with a volley of more stinging rain.