Birds of a Feather

  Maisie placed her hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Never judge a journey by the distance, Billy. Your journey, from the time you went over to France, has demanded bravery of a different kind—and I admire you for it.”

  Maisie drove to Joseph Waite’s house in Dulwich after seeing Billy off. It was a fine day, one that was welcome after the fiercely cold Easter. It seemed to presage another long hot summer, perhaps to rival the previous one. Maisie had dressed in summer clothes for the first time that year, and wore a new pale gray suit, with a hip-length jacket and mid-calf skirt with two small kick pleats at the front and back. Simple black shoes matched a new black hat made of tightly woven straw with a gray ribbon joined in a flat rosette at the side—at two guineas the hat had been an extravagant purchase from Harvey Nichols. The jacket had a shawl collar, a style that Maisie favored, even though it had been more fashionable several seasons earlier.

  She parked according to the usual instructions, and smiled as the door opened and Harris inclined his head in greeting.

  “Good morning, Miss Dobbs. I trust that you are well?”

  “Yes, very well, thank you very much, Harris.”

  The butler smiled and a moment passed when neither knew quite what to say next. Maisie took the lead.

  “Have you seen Will this week?”

  “Oh yes, Miss Dobbs. Two of the maids went on Sunday afternoon, and I expect to go on Thursday, my afternoon off.”

  “How is he?”

  “The usual, Miss. The usual. He seemed a little confused when new people turned up to take him into the gardens, but settled down again quickly. We can let his mother know that he’s not been forgotten.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Will you visit him, Miss Dobbs?”

  “I promised Mrs. Willis that I would, so I’ll see him when I next visit my . . .” Maisie stopped speaking for a second as an image of Simon came to her, not as he was now, but as a young man. “When I next visit my friend.”

  The butler indicated the library’s open door.

  “Mr. Waite will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Maisie walked over to the library window, which commanded a broad view of the gardens and the dove-cote. The white birds flew to and from their home, cooing as they settled again, perched among their kind.

  “Good morning, Miss Dobbs.” Joseph Waite closed the door behind him and offered her one of the chairs by the fireplace. He waited until Maisie was seated, then settled into his own chair.

  “How are you, Miss Dobbs?” he asked.

  “I’m well, thank you. Is Charlotte settling in comfortably?”

  “Yes, she seems to be.”

  “Have you spent much time with her, Mr. Waite?”

  Joseph Waite shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “I know this is a difficult time for you, Mr. Waite—”

  “You think this is difficult? I lost my son, you know.”

  Maisie allowed a moment for Joseph Waite’s still pent-up anger to settle, and watched as the tension he felt coursed through him. Unmoved, she was determined to continue.

  “Mr. Waite, why did you instruct your staff to tell me you were not at home when I came here for our previous appointment?”

  Joseph Waite twisted the diamond ring on his little finger, the ring that had caught the sun so easily as he reached out to feed doves at his windowsill.

  “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Maisie settled into the chair, a move that caused Joseph Waite to look up.

  “Yes, Mr. Waite, you know very well what I’m talking about. So please answer my question.”

  “I don’t have to take this! Just give me your account and—”

  “With respect, Mr. Waite, I risked my life in this house, so I will be heard.”

  Waite was silent, his face flushed.

  “The truth is that you kept your daughter in this house because you feared for her life. Your grief and anger over what she had done when she was but a foolish young girl festered, but your love for her caused you to keep her close.”

  “Hmmmph!.” Waite looked away.

  “You thought that if she lived alone, she would be in danger.” Maisie paused. “So you insisted that she, a grown woman, live at home. You didn’t even trust a potential husband to keep her safe, did you? Yet, though she was under your roof, you could not forgive her.”

  Waite was restless and again fidgeted in his chair. “You don’t know what you’ re talking about. You have no idea what it’s like—”

  “You gave Mrs. Willis a job as soon as her family went to war. You felt her predicament so keenly that you asked her to come to your home to work as your housekeeper. You paid for Will’s care, so that she would never have to worry. And you watched her bitterness grow. But you thought that as long as she, too, was under your roof, you would be in control. When Rosamund and Philippa were murdered, you suspected Mrs. Willis, but you didn’t do anything about it. Was it because you felt as angry and aggrieved toward them as she did?”

  Waite placed his head in his hands, but still he did not speak. Maisie continued.

  “When Charlotte disappeared you wanted her back, for you believed that Mrs. Willis would not strike at her in your home. It was only close to the end that you became unsure. Though the three deaths were terrible, you did not grieve for those families. Your all-consuming rage at what the women had done was still as sharp as a knife in your side. But if Charlotte was taken from you, too . . .”

  Waite shook his head. “I couldn’t go to the police. I had no evidence. How could I point the finger at a woman who was broken already, whose family had given their all for my business and for their country.”

  “That decision, Mr. Waite, is subject to debate. You’d visited each woman a few years after the war, to give them a piece of your mind. But it didn’t afford you much relief. Anger still gnawed at you, along with the terrible grief at losing Joe.”

  “Your final account please, Miss Dobbs. Then leave.”

  Maisie did not move. “What are you going to do about Charlotte, Mr. Waite?”

  “It’ll all work out.”

  “It hasn’t worked out in fifteen years, and it won’t work out now unless both you—particularly you—and Charlotte embrace a different idea of what is possible.”

  “What do you mean? You come here with your fancy ideas—”

  “What I mean is this: Resentment must give way to possibility, anger to acceptance, grief to compassion, disdain to respect—on both sides. I mean change, Mr. Waite. Change. You’ve remained a successful businessman by embracing change, by mastering it, even when circumstances were against you. You should know exactly what I mean.”

  Waite opened his mouth as if to argue, but then fell silent, staring into the coals. Several minutes passed before he spoke again. “I respect you, Miss Dobbs, that’s why I came to you. I don’t believe in buying a dog and barking myself. I pay for the best, and I expect the best. So say your piece.”

  Maisie nodded and leaned forward, forcing Waite to look at her. “Talk with Charlotte, not at her. Ask her how she sees the past, how she feels about losing Joe. Tell her how you feel, not only about your son, but about her. Don’t expect to do it all at once. Go for a walk every day in that big garden of yours where the grass is never disturbed by a footprint, talk a little every day, and be honest with each other.”

  “I don’t know about all this talking business.”

  “That’s quite evident, Mr. Waite.” Maisie continued while she had his ear, “And give her a job. Ask Charlotte to work for you. She needs a purpose, Mr. Waite. She needs to stand tall, to do something, to gain some self-respect.”

  “What can she do? She’s never done—”

  “She’s never had the chance. Which is why neither of you know what she is capable of accomplishing, of becoming. The truth is that from the time she was a girl you knew which of your two children had it in them to succeed you, didn’t you? Joe
was a lovely young man, as everyone who knew him agrees, but he didn’t quite have what it takes to be the leader your company needs, did he? And though you love Charlotte, you wanted Joe to be the leader so much that you stifled her spirit and she floundered.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Waite struggled. “It’s too late now.”

  “No, it isn’t. Experiment, Mr. Waite. If one of your grocery items doesn’t sell in the front of the shop, you put it in another place, don’t you? Try that with Charlotte. Try her in the offices, try her out on the shop floor, have her check quality. Start her at the bottom, where she can show her worth to the staff as much as to you—and to herself.”

  “I suppose I could.”

  “But if you really want to blaze a trail, Mr. Waite, you’ll put her where she can do some good.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Joseph Waite is known for philanthropy. You give away surplus food to the poor, so why not put Charlotte to work on distribution? Make your contributions into a job and allow her work her way up. Let her prove her mettle, and give her a means to earn respect.”

  Joseph Waite nodded his head thoughtfully, and Maisie knew that the canny businessman was three steps ahead already, was envisioning capitalizing on her advice in ways that even she could not imagine. She fell silent. Joseph Waite looked at her directly. “Thank you for bringing Charlotte home. And for being frank. We might not always like what we hear but, where I’m from, folk value honest talk, plainly spoken.”

  “Good.” Maisie stood up, reached into her document case and pulled out a manila envelope. “My final account, Mr. Waite.”

  Over the summer months, Maisie traveled to Chelstone each weekend, to spend time with Frankie and to see how Billy had progressed. A generous bonus from Joseph Waite allowed her the financial leeway to enjoy her father’s company for longer periods of time. In addition, Waite retained Maisie’s services for her continuing counsel in rebuilding the relationship between Charlotte and himself.

  For his part, Billy regained strength and movement in both legs, each week meeting with the practitioner who instructed him in exercises and movements to counteract the lingering effects of battlefield injury.

  “What ’e says, Miss, is that I’m increasing my core.”

  “Your core?” Maisie watched Billy brush out the mane of Lady Rowan’s latest purchase, a bay mare with an enviable track record, now out to grass and ready for breeding.

  “Yep, me core. Makes me sound like a Cox’s Orange Pippin, don’t it?” Billy curried the horse’s mane, continuing with his work as he spoke. “There are all these different exercises, some to stretch me legs, some me arms, and me middle, and some of ’em are really small movements right ’ere.” Billy pointed to his stomach with the curry comb. “Which is me core.”

  “Well, it seems to be doing you a lot of good. I saw you walk across the stable yard with barely a limp.”

  “The main thing is that the pain ain’t what it was. Of course I ’ave to go over for these little chats with Dr. Blanche, and then there’s Dr. Dene, who comes up to see me every now and again, you know. And of course, ’e sees yer dad as well.”

  Maisie felt her face flush, and she looked at the ground. “I would have thought that Dad didn’t need any more checkups from Dr. Dene, not with the doctor coming up from the village.”

  Billy secured a lead rein to the mare’s halter, and they walked outside into the sunshine.

  “I think Dr. Dene likes to see Dr. Blanche, so ’e drops in on yer dad. Asks about you every now and again, ’e does.”

  “Asks about me?” Maisie shielded her eyes.

  Billy grinned, then looked around as tires crunched on the gravel and a new Austin Swallow came to an abrupt halt at the far end of the courtyard, close to the Groom’s Cottage.

  “Well, talk of the devil, there’s Dr. Dene now.”

  “Oh!”

  “Miss Dobbs. How very nice to see you here. And Mr. Beale, still making good progress, I see.”

  “Yep, doing very nicely, thank you, Dr. Dene. Wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

  “No, I’m on a flying visit to see Maurice.” He turned to Maisie. “Stroke of luck meeting you, Miss Dobbs. I’ve to come up to London soon, for a meeting at St. Thomas’s. I wondered if you would join me for supper, perhaps a visit to the theater.”

  Maisie blushed again. “Um, yes, perhaps.”

  “Righty-o, I’ll get on the dog-and-bone when I’m up there.” Andrew Dene shook hands with Billy again, executed a short bow in front of Maisie, then turned and sprinted in the direction of the Dower House.

  “Don’t mind me sayin’ so, Miss, but ’e’s a bit of a cheeky one, ain’t ’e, what with the old rhymin’ slang and all. Where did ’e learn that then?”

  Maisie laughed. “Bermondsey, Billy. Dr. Dene’s a Bermondsey boy.”

  Now that her father was well on the way to a full recovery, and Billy’s sojourn in Kent almost at an end, it was time for Maisie to complete the ritual of bringing a major case to a close in the way that she had learned from Maurice. In visiting places and people pertinent to the case, she was honoring her teacher’s practice of a “full accounting” so that work could move on with renewed energy and understanding. First she visited Hastings again, spending time with Rosamund Thorpe’s housekeeper, who was busy packing belongings now that the house had been sold.

  “I’ve found a very nice little cottage in Sedlescombe,” said Mrs. Hicks. Maisie had declined to come into the house, respectful of the task of packing up to begin a new life. Now she strained to hear the woman’s soft voice which was drowned by the seagulls wheeling overhead. “Of course, I’ll miss the sea, people always do when they leave the Old Town, not that many do.”

  Maisie smiled and turned to leave, but Mrs. Hicks reached out to her.

  “Thank you, Miss Dobbs. Thank you for what you did.”

  “Oh, please, don’t—”

  “You know, I always thought that I’d see Mrs. Thorpe’s killer hang and not feel a shred of pity about it. But, I feel terrible for that woman. Terrible. They say she probably won’t hang, that they’ll send her away. Mind you, if it was me, I’d want to be dead. I’d want to be with my family.”

  Later, when Maisie pulled up outside the Bluebell Avenue house in Coulsden, which John Sedgewick had shared with his wife, Philippa, a ‘For Sale’ sign was flapping back and forth in the breeze, and Sedgewick was working in the garden. He brushed off his hands and came to greet Maisie as soon as he saw her opening the gate.

  “Miss Dobbs, I am so glad to see you!”

  “Mr. Sedgewick.” Maisie held out her hand, which Sedgewick took in both of his.

  “How can I ever thank you?”

  “Please, there’s no need.”

  “Well, thank you for finding out the truth.” Sedgewick placed his hands in his pockets. “I know that what Pippin did was wrong, but I also know that she was a good person. She tried to make up for it.”

  “Of course she did, Mr. Sedgewick. I see you’re moving.”

  “Oh, yes. Time for a complete change, a very complete change. I’ve accepted a position in New Zealand. There’s a lot of building going on there, so chaps like me are rather welcome.”

  “Congratulations. It’s a long way, though.”

  “Yes, it is. But I had to do it, make a clean break. It’s time to go, no good staying here and moping. In any case, this is a street for families, not widowers. They say that change is good for you.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Sedgewick. I’m sure you’ll find happiness again.”

  “I hope so, Miss Dobbs. I do hope so.”

  Though she walked by the mews house owned by Lydia Fisher, she did not ring the bell. The upper windows were open, and she could hear a gramophone playing at a volume that showed no consideration for neighbors. A woman laughed aloud, and even from the street below Maisie could hear the clink of glasses. She thought of the vaporous loneliness that had seeped into every piece of furniture, every
fabric in Lydia Fisher’s home, and whispered, “May she rest in peace.”

  The red brick of Camden Abbey seemed almost aflame against a seldom-seen blue sky that graced the Romney Marshes, but a chill breeze whipped across the flat land to remind all who came that this was pasture reclaimed from the sea. Once again Maisie was led to the visitor’s sitting room where, instead of tea, a small glass flagon had been placed on a tray with some milky white cheddar and warm bread. Dame Constance was waiting for her, smiling through the grille as she entered.

  “Good afternoon, Maisie. It’s lunchtime, so I thought a little of our blackberry wine with homemade bread and cheese might go down well.”

  Maisie sat down opposite. “I don’t know about wine, not when I have to get behind the wheel again soon. I think I should beware of your Camden Abbey brews.”

  “In my day, Maisie—”

  Maisie raised a hand. “Dame Constance, I confess I wonder how they ever let you in, what with the things you did in your day.”

  The nun laughed. “Now you know the secret of the cloister, Maisie, we only take people who know the world. Now then, tell me how you are. We are not so isolated that we know nothing of the news here, you know. I understand that your investigations met with success.”

  Maisie reached toward the flagon and poured a small measure of translucent deep red wine. “I find the word ‘success’ difficult to apply to this case, Dame Constance. Yes, the murderer has been brought to justice, but many questions linger.”

  Dame Constance nodded. “People assume that we have a head start on wisdom in a place such as this, where women gather in a life of contemplation, a life of prayer. But it isn’t quite like that. Wisdom comes when we acknowledge what we can never know.”

  Maisie sipped her wine.

  “I have come to wonder, Maisie, if our work really is so different. We are both concerned with questions, are we not? Investigation is part of both our lives, and we are witnesses to confession.”

  “When you put it like that, Dame Constance—”

  “We both have to avoid making personal judgments and we are both faced with the challenge of doing and saying what is right when the burden of truth has been placed on our shoulders.”