Birds of a Feather (10 page)

Maisie wondered how she might gain access to Lydia Fisher’s home once more. She wanted to know how Lydia Fisher lived and what had caused her grief, because of one thing she was sure: Lydia Fisher had grieved.

While she walked, Maisie remembered feeling a prickling of the skin on her neck while she stood in the upstairs hallway of Lydia Fisher’s house, outside the room where her body lay. She had not shied away from the sensation but had instead silently asked,
What is it you want me to see?
Never before at the scene of a crime had Maisie had felt such a duality of sensation, like a fabric that on one side is smooth and satinlike but on the other, rough with a raised pile. She knew that the last person who had come to the house came with a terrible burden. A burden that was no lighter for having taken Lydia Fisher’s life.

Maisie walked quickly toward Victoria underground station. She planned to return to her office as quickly as possible. She would leave a message for Billy to the effect that she would be back at five o’clock. Not a moment was to be lost in the search for Charlotte Waite. If the Coulsden victim, Philippa Sedgewick, had been Charlotte’s friend, as was Lydia Fisher, then Charlotte must be found. One dead friend was a tragedy. Two dead friends . . . a terrifying coincidence.

Just as Maisie reached Victoria, the black car she had already seen once that day drew alongside her. The door opened, and Detective Inspector Richard Stratton emerged and tipped his hat.

“Miss Dobbs, I thought I might find you on your way to the station. I noticed that you didn’t have your little red motor with you today. Look—you’ve had a horrible time this morning—would you care to join me for a quick cup of tea?”

Maisie looked at her watch. Lunchtime had passed and she had hardly noticed. “Yes, I do have time—just—but I must be back at my office by five.”

“I would be delighted to escort you there in the motor car. Let’s just nip across the road.” Stratton indicated a small teashop, and Maisie inclined her head in agreement.

Stratton took Maisie lightly by the elbow to steer her through the sparse traffic. Maisie knew he would likely be less solicitous when he questioned her again formally.

A waitress directed them to a corner table.

“Miss Dobbs, I’m curious about the fact that you visited Mrs. Fisher today of all days. Is there anything else you can tell me about your presence at the scene?”

“I’ve told you all I can, I believe. The victim was once a friend of the young woman I am seeking on behalf of a client. I thought she might be able to assist me.”

The waitress returned with a tray and proceeded to set a white china teapot on the table, followed by a hot-water jug, sugar bowl, milk jug, and two matching white china teacups and saucers. She bobbed a curtsey and left the table, returning a moment later with a plate containing sliced Hovis bread with butter and jam, several iced fancy-cakes and two Eccles cakes.

“Hmmm. Interesting. Mind you, this woman had lots of friends.”

“Perhaps mere acquaintances, Inspector.”

“Yes, possibly.” Stratton looked thoughtful as Maisie began to pour tea.

“So you put the milk in
after
the tea,” said Stratton.

“The old London way, Inspector Stratton: Never put the milk in first because you might waste some. If you put it in last, you can tell exactly how much you really need.” Maisie handed the cup of tea to Stratton, pushed the sugar bowl toward him, and filled her own cup.

As Stratton lifted the hot tea to his lips, Maisie pressed ahead with her own question. “I take it you agree that the murder at Cheyne Mews is linked to the Coulsden murder, Inspector?”

Stratton set his cup on the saucer so fiercely, the sound caused several people to look in their direction.

“Inspector, it really doesn’t take much in the way of deduction.” Maisie spoke softly.

Stratton regarded Maisie before answering. “In confidence . . .”

“Of course.”

Stratton continued, “The scene was very much the same as the Coulsden murder, with very little bloodshed given the extent of the attack. Spilsbury suspects ingestion of a narcotic, most likely morphine, prior to an assault with a more violent weapon. The same method was used with the Coulsden victim. The body was cold, and rigor had set in.”

“Has Spilsbury indicated the time of death yet?”

“Informally he confirmed it was yesterday, either in the late afternoon or in the evening. I’ll have to wait until he submits his detailed report. He’s usually more definite even at the scene of the murder. Apparently Lydia Fisher dismissed the maid after being served tea yesterday and neither she or the cook had seen her since. But according to the staff, that wasn’t unusual. She was frequently known to go out at night without first requesting the assistance of her maid. And she often took to her rooms for several days on end, demanding not to be disturbed and furious if she was. The murderer could have locked the door to the room behind him, let himself out, and no one the wiser for hours. The cook said that the previous maid wouldn’t turn a hair if Mrs. Fisher remained in her rooms for two or three days. If you hadn’t arrived at the house and found the young maid in tears, the body could have lain there for a long time. The cook would have come along, told her not to fuss, and that would have been that.”

“Thank heavens I called to see her.”

“There’s something else. The maid went out after tea on Wednesday, which the victim took with a man of about thirty to thirty-five. By the way, Miss Dobbs, I must underline again the need for absolute confidence.” Stratton sipped his tea and looked at Maisie intently.

“Of course, Inspector.” Maisie wanted Stratton to continue.

“Anyway, he was of medium build, with a slight limp—possibly an old soldier—and he had hair ‘like a stook of hay,’ according to the maid. He’s our best suspect thus far, so we must identify and find him as soon as possible.”

Maisie set her cup on the saucer, wondering whether she should preempt Stratton’s discovery that Billy Beale had been an earlier visitor. She quickly decided against it.
Perhaps
there had been another caller whose description was similar.

“Inspector, I know you might find this somewhat irregular, but I wonder, might I revisit the room where the body was found? A woman’s insight might be helpful.”

“Well, it
is
most irregular, Miss Dobbs.”

Stratton looked at his watch. “I will consider it. Now then, I should ensure that you are escorted to your office.”

Maisie waited for Stratton to pull back her chair. They were met outside by Stratton’s driver, who drove them swiftly across London and, arriving at Fitzroy Square, parked the motor car on the pedestrian area outside Maisie’s office.

“Having a police car is handy at times,” said Stratton.

The driver opened the door for Stratton and Maisie to alight and, just as Stratton held out his hand to bid Maisie good-bye, Billy Beale came around the corner. He was carrying his cap. At that moment the last ray of afternoon sun caught his unruly blond hair at the same time as a rogue breeze swept across the square, giving the impression of a wayward halo around his head.

“Evenin’, Miss; evenin’, Detective Inspector Stratton.”

Stratton shook hands with Billy, who touched his forehead, nodded to Maisie, and turned toward the front door. His appearance was not lost on Stratton, who watched Billy walk up the steps, pull the sleeve of his coat down over his hand and polish Maisie’s nameplate in his customary fashion before taking out his key, unlocking the outer door, and entering the Georgian building. As he closed the door behind him, Stratton turned to face Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs, I think perhaps that there is more to discuss regarding your presence in Cheyne Mews this afternoon. However, we can do so tomorrow. I will be here at nine o’clock to collect you so that we may visit Lydia Fisher’s house together. As you said, a woman’s perspective might be of use to the police in the investigation of this crime.”

Maisie held out her hand to Stratton. “Very well, Inspector. However, I would prefer to meet you at Victoria at, say, a quarter past nine? Then we can go on from there. I have other engagements during the day, so I must be back at my office by half past ten.”

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.” Stratton nodded, stepped into the police car, and was driven away.

CHAPTER FIVE

M
aisie doubted that Stratton would seriously consider Billy Beale a suspect. They had met before and Stratton seemed both impressed by Billy’s devotion to his employer and amused by his enthusiastic approach to his new job. On the other hand, he might suspect that Maisie had gone to the house to cover up Billy’s tracks. No, the Inspector was an intelligent man, he would not seriously consider such a thing, though he would want to question Billy to eliminate him from inquiries and to extract any useful observations.

Maisie reached the top step of the first flight of stairs and lingered over a concern: Joseph Waite’s demand that the police not be notified of his daughter’s disappearance despite the possible relevance of Charlotte’s friendship with Lydia Fisher. The pursuit of the murderer might require that this information be disclosed. Maisie worried about the consequences of withholding evidence from Stratton. And she worried about something else: What if Waite was wrong? What if Charlotte had not disappeared of her own free will? What if she knew the murderer? Could she have become another victim? But then again, what if Charlotte had killed her friend—had killed two friends?

Before she could open the door to the office, it swung open and Billy stood waiting, his jacket removed and shirtsleeves rolled up, ready for work. Maisie looked at her watch.

“Billy, let’s sit down.”

Billy’s ready smile evaporated. “What’s wrong, Miss?”

“Sit down first, Billy.”

Billy became agitated, which accentuated his limp. Maisie understood, knowing that the unease of the moment would strike his leg, a point of physical vulnerability.

Maisie sat opposite him and deliberately relaxed her body to bring calm to the room and to communicate that she was in control of the situation. “Billy, this morning I went to the home of Lydia Fisher in Cheyne Mews and found her—dead.”

“Oh my Gawd!” Billy rose from the chair, half stumbling, to stand by the window. “I knew she was drinking too much.” Agitated, he ran his fingers repeatedly through his hair. “I should’ve taken away the bottle, got on the blower to you, got you over there. You would’ve known what to do. I could’ve stopped ’er, I knew she was downin’ ’em too fast, I should—”

“Billy.” Maisie left the table and stood in front of her assistant. “Lydia Fisher was murdered after you left her yesterday. There was nothing you could have done.”

“Murdered? Topped by someone?”

“Yes. The exact time of death has yet to be determined, but when I quickly examined the body, I estimated that she had lain there since early yesterday evening.”

Maisie recounted her visit to the Fisher home, finding the body, her subsequent initial questioning and the meeting with Stratton later. Billy was fearful of the police interrogation that would doubtless ensue. Maisie asked Billy to describe this meeting with Lydia Fisher again, and his departure from the mews house.

“Billy, you did a good job,” she said when he had concluded shakily. “I will explain to Detective Inspector Stratton that you were working on behalf of a concerned father, and so on. The challenge will be to keep the Waite name out of the conversation.” Maisie rubbed her neck, thought for a moment, and continued. “But the fact is, apart from the killer, you were possibly the last person to see Lydia Fisher alive.”

“And she was pretty well oiled when I left, and that’s a fact.”

“What was the time again?”

“I got back ’ere at five, didn’t I? For our meetin’.” As he spoke, Billy reached into his jacket, which was hanging over the back of the chair, and pulled out his notebook. “And I ’ad a couple of other errands to do, so it was about . . . ’ere we go, Miss, it was twenty-five past three in the afternoon.”

“Was anyone else in the house at the time, other than the staff?”

“Now, it’s funny that you should say that, Miss, because although I didn’t see anyone, I thought someone else might be about. In fact, now I come to think of it, I saw a suitcase—one of them big leather ones with the straps—on the landing.”

“That’s interesting. I don’t remember seeing a large suitcase this morning.”

“P’r’aps the maid moved it. It could’ve belonged to Mrs Fisher, couldn’t it? Remember, she corrected me, Miss? I noticed she ’ad a wedding ring on, but the ’ouse didn’t ’ave that feelin’ about it, y’know, like there was a man about.”

“Why didn’t you say anything about this, Billy?”

“Well, Miss, she wasn’t dead then, was she? And I wasn’t lookin’ out for ’
er
. I was only there to find out about Miss Waite, wasn’t I?”

Maisie sighed. “Fair enough. But remember—”

“Yeah, I know, ‘Everything in its entirety must be written down.’Well, Miss, I did do that, I did write it down in my book, but I just didn’t say nothin’ because Mrs. Fisher wasn’t the one what’d run off, was she?”