Birds of a Feather (12 page)

As Valerie flapped the morning newspaper so that heat would move around Maisie’s black tresses, she began to giggle. Then Sandra lost the battle to hold back her own laughter, as did Teresa. Maisie looked up through a veil of ringlets of still-damp hair and, for the first time in a long time, she began to laugh, too.

“Oh, don’t, don’t make me laugh like that!” As tears began to fall from her eyes, Maisie rubbed them away.

“Miss, Miss, I’m sorry, it’s just that, well, we suddenly saw the funny side of it, I mean, we’ve all ’ad to do it, you know, I s’pose we never thought you’d ever rush in ’ere all of a fluster.”

Maisie leaned back, took up her brush, and began to sweep her hair into a manageable twist. “I’m only human! You know, Mrs. Crawford would have boxed my ears for brushing my hair in the kitchen, and that’s a fact!”

Valerie moved to close the stove door, as Sandra wiped down the long kitchen table with a cloth. “Well, Miss, it’s nice to see you laugh, it really is. It’s good for a body, laughing. Puts a spring in your step, it does.”

Maisie smiled. “I appreciate the help, and the company.” Maisie looked at the silver watch pinned to her dress, “I had better get moving or I’ll be late for my appointment.”

Sandra put down the cloth she was holding. “I’ll go to the door with you, Miss.”

Maisie was about to insist that she need not be escorted, when it occurred to her that Sandra, the longest-serving housemaid and the oldest at twenty-six, might want to speak with her in confidence. At the top of the stone steps at the side of the mansion Maisie turned to Sandra in silence and smiled, encouraging her to speak.

“Miss, I hope this doesn’t sound, you know, out of place.” Sandra stood with her hands clasped behind her back and looked at her polished black shoes for a second, as if searching for the best way to deliver her words. She hesitated, and Maisie said nothing but moved just slightly closer. “Well, you work very hard, Miss, anyone can see that. Even late into the night. So, what I wanted to say was, that you’re always welcome to come down for a chat if you want. You see—” she picked at loose thread on her pinafore “—we know you can’t do that when everyone’s in residence, because it’s not done, is it? But when you’re alone at the house, we just want you to know that you don’t have to be.” Sandra looked at Maisie as if she had finished, then quickly added, “Mind you, we’re probably all a bit boring for you, Miss.”

Maisie smiled at Sandra, and said, “Not at all, Sandra. You are most kind. Some of my happiest times were spent downstairs in that kitchen. I’ll take you up on the offer.” Maisie looked at her watch. “Oh heavens, I must dash now. But Sandra . . .”

“Yes, Miss?”

“Thank you. Thank you for your understanding.”

“Yes, Miss.” Sandra bobbed a curtsey, nodded, and waved good-bye to Maisie.

D
etective Inspector Stratton climbed out of the police car as soon as it came to a halt, and opened the rear passenger door for Maisie. He took the seat next to her and, without any niceties of greeting, began immediately to speak of “the Fisher Case.”

“I’ll get straight to the point, Miss Dobbs: What was your assistant doing at Lydia Fisher’s house on the day she was murdered?”

“Inspector Stratton, you have not yet informed me as to whether, in fact, my assistant visited on the actual day of her death, as she was not found until eleven yesterday morning.”

“Please do not be obstructive, Miss Dobbs. I am allowing you to revisit the victim’s home this morning in the hope that you might be able to assist us.”

“Indeed, Inspector, I appreciate your trust, though I am only trying to point out that we do not know yet exactly when the deceased met her fate. Or do we?” Maisie smiled at Stratton with a warmth that remained from the laughter that had embraced her less than an hour before.

Stratton looked mildly put out. “Spilsbury has reported the time of death to have been at about six o’clock in the evening on the day
before
you found her. Now, what about Beale?”

“Mr. Beale did indeed see Mrs. Fisher at her home. However, he left Cheyne Mews before four o’clock to return to the office to meet with me, and I can vouch for him.”

“When did he leave you again?”

“Oh, Inspector—”

“Miss Dobbs.”

“It was approximately six o’clock. No doubt his wife would be able to confirm his arrival at home by, say, half past six or so. He travels to and from work by either bus or the underground, though I believe he prefers to go home by train as it’s a bit quicker—from St. Pancras on the Metropolitan Line to Whitechapel. Depending upon the trains, I suppose he might not get home until seven. I doubt if he’d be out much later, Inspector, as he likes to play with his children before they go to bed.” Maisie thought for a moment, then added, “I know that occasionally he stops for a quick half pint at the Prince of Wales, but only at the end of the week.”

“I’ll have to question him, you know.”

“Yes, of course, Inspector.” Maisie looked out of the window

The car slowed to make the turn into Cheyne Mews, and drew alongside Number 9. A single police constable stood outside. Stratton made no move to leave the car but turned to Maisie again.

“Tell me again why you were coming to visit Mrs. Fisher, Miss Dobbs?”

Maisie had prepared an answer to this question. “I have been clutching at straws, Inspector, and Mrs. Fisher might have been able to throw light on a case I am working on concerning a daughter who has left the home of her parents. It was a tenuous connection. I believe they were acquainted at one point and I wanted to speak with her to see if she could illuminate aspects of the girl’s character. I should add, Inspector, that the ‘girl’ is in her thirties, and has a very overbearing father.”

“And Beale?”

“He had been confirming the names and whereabouts of her acquaintances. Our subject’s connection with Mrs. Fisher had been so intermittent that we did not even know whether we had her correct address. He was checking our information when she came along and he took the opportunity to speak to her. They conversed and he left. I’ve told you the rest.”

“And the name of the woman you are looking for?”

“As I said yesterday, I have signed a contract of confidentiality. Should it be absolutely necessary to divulge the name of my client, I will do so in the interests of public safety and justice. At this stage I request your respect for my professional obligation to my client.”

Stratton frowned but nodded. “For now, Miss Dobbs, I will not press the point. We are looking for a male suspect, not a woman. However, have you any other information that might be pertinent to this case?”

“Only that Mr. Beale commented upon the alcoholic beverages that Mrs. Fisher enjoyed instead of tea.”

Stratton rubbed his chin and looked at Maisie again, “Yes, that is in line with Spilsbury’s findings.”

Maisie pulled on her gloves and took up her bag in anticipation of leaving the car. “Inspector, did Spilsbury comment upon the poison theory?”

“Oh yes,” said Stratton, reaching for the door handle. “She was definitely poisoned first. It was taken in tea—so she probably had a cup or two at some point after Beale left the house. Cuthbert is currently beavering away in his laboratory to identify the exact poison or combination of substances employed, though Sir Bernard Spilsbury has said that he suspects an opiate, probably morphia.”

“What about the knife attack?”

“She was dead when the attack took place, hence—as you saw— there was little blood at the scene. But there are some lingering questions about the knife.”

“Oh?”

“It seems that the stab wounds are very much like those inflicted by a bayonet. But you know Sir Bernard. We can expect a very precise description of the weapon soon.”

Maisie drew breath quickly and asked one more question as Stratton opened the door for her. “And has he confirmed a connection to the Coulsden case?”

Stratton took her hand as she stepped from the motor car. “The means of murder is identical.”

“Spoiled a nice piece of carpet, didn’t he?” Stratton was looking out of the drawing room window to the street below.

Flippant comments were not unusual among those whose job it was to investigate the aftermath of violent crime. Maurice had told Maisie long ago that it was part of the unconscious effort to bring some normalcy to that which is far from usual. But it was the first time she had heard an Aubusson rug being referred to as a “nice piece of carpet.”

“Inspector, may I have some time alone in the room, please?”

He paused, then shrugged before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. Though he had never liaised professionally with Maurice Blanche, he had heard of his methods from colleagues who had worked with the man, and knew his “strange” ways often led to a quick solution of the crime in question. Blanche’s former assistant was indubitably using procedures learned from her employer. The room had been thoroughly investigated, so there was no risk to evidence. And Stratton knew that, had she wanted, Maisie Dobbs could have altered or removed evidence when she first found the corpse.

Maisie walked slowly around the room, touching the personal belongings of Lydia Fisher, and again she was assailed by the sense that this was a lonely woman. That she had yearned for conversation rather than talk; for heartfelt passion, not indulgence; and that she had ached for the intimate connection that came with true friendship rather than from a cadre of society sycophants.

She took careful stock of the contents of the drawing room: Pale blue velvet curtains, the deeper lapis blue chaise with pale blue piping, an oak writing table in the art nouveau style, a set of side tables, now properly nested rather than tipped over, a mirror shaped like a huge butterfly on one wall, and a modernist painting on the other. The drinks cabinet in the corner to the right of the window had been “dusted” by the police, and there was a gramophone in the opposite corner. It had been a pleasing, airy room. But it was the room of a person who lived alone, not a married woman.

She walked over to the chaise, knelt by the umber stain on the rug, and touched the place where Lydia Fisher had fallen. Maisie closed her eyes and breathed deeply, all the time keeping a light touch upon the place where the dead woman’s blood had spilled grudgingly onto the carpet. As she did so a cold, clammy air seemed to descend and envelop her. The sensation was not unexpected, and she knew it would come as she reached out to the past in search of a reason, a word, a clue. Anything that would tell her why Lydia Fisher had died. Anything that might tell her why there was something so recognizable in a room she had never entered before coming to visit Mrs. Fisher yesterday.

Seconds passed. Time was suspended. Instead of seeing the room in which she stood, she saw the one Charlotte Waite had left so hurriedly five days earlier. Some emotion was shared by the two women, and though she was quick to consider loneliness, which she would find so easy to understand, Maisie knew a more elusive feeling she was as yet unable to name linked them.

Maisie opened her eyes, and the connection with Lydia Fisher began to ebb. She heard Stratton’s voice coming closer. He had obviously thought that she’d had time enough to commune with whatever Lydia Fisher had left behind. Maisie took one last look, but just before she opened the door she felt drawn toward the window where Stratton had stood earlier. Leaning on the sill, she wished she could raise the window for air. A sudden warmth in her hands caused her to look down. Perhaps the radiator underneath had heated the wood. She ran her hands along the sill, then knelt to see if she could turn down the heat. To her surprise the iron pipes were cold. Running her hands down the wall, then along the floorboards, Maisie searched with her fingertips. There was something here for her, something of consequence. Just as she heard Stratton’s footfall outside the door, Maisie felt a hint of something both soft and prickly brush against her forefinger. She leaned closer. The item was tiny and white, so small, in fact, that it could have been swept up by the cleaners. It would be of no interest to the police. It might have fallen to the floor at any time, a small, stray wisp.

“Miss Dobbs,” Stratton knocked at the door.

“Come in, Inspector.”

As Stratton walked into the room, Maisie was folding a linen handkerchief.

“Finished, Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes, Inspector. I was rather saddened; do excuse me.” Maisie sniffed as she placed the handkerchief in her pocket.

Stratton and Maisie left the house and continued their conversation in the car.

“Your thoughts?”

“I’d like to know more about Mr. Fisher, wouldn’t you, Inspector?”

“Absolutely—in fact, I’ve got my men on the job now.”

“Where is he? What does he do?”

“Ah, well, it’s what he does that directly affects where he is. He’s some sort of traveler, an explorer if you like. According to the maid, he’s rarely home. He spends most of his time going off to some far-flung locale with a group of interested individuals—all wealthy—who pay him handsomely to be dragged off into British East Africa, the Gobi Desert, or some such place to be photographed with animals that you could quite easily see at Regent’s Park Zoo!”

“So that explains it.”

“What?”

“Her loneliness.”

“Hmmm.” Stratton looked sideways at Maisie.

“Inspector, I wonder if I could ask a favor?” Maisie smiled.

“Miss Dobbs, I fear that your request may be for something else that will bring me near to losing my job.”

“Not if it helps to find the murderer. I wonder if I could see any belongings taken from the Coulsden victim’s home?”

“Look, Miss Dobbs, though I am grateful for any interpretations you can give me from your ‘woman’s perspective,’ I am intrigued as to why you are interested in that case. The Fisher woman is understandable, given the ‘tenuous’ link to one of your own private cases. But there can be no reason for you to examine Mrs. Sedgewick’s effects. It would be most irregular.”

“I understand perfectly, Inspector.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“I can have my driver take us right to your door, if you wish.”