Birds of a Feather (21 page)

Maisie allowed a silence to envelop them, a time in which she composed her body, cleared her thoughts and saw in her mind’s eye a connection forming between herself and the man opposite her. She imagined a stream of light emanating from the center of her forehead just above her nose, a bright thread that flowed toward her subject and bathed him with a luminous glow. Slowly the man who wanted to be addressed informally as John relaxed his shoulders and released his arms. He leaned back.

Maisie knew better than to breach his trust by commencing with a fusillade of questions that must have already been put to him by the police.

“John, would you like to tell me about your wife?” she asked softly.

Sedgewick exhaled and gave a sharp, ironic half laugh. “You know, Miss Dobbs, you are the first person to ask me that question in that manner. The police are more direct.”

Maisie inclined her head but did not speak, inviting him to continue.

“She was lovely, Miss Dobbs. A lovely girl. Funny, I always think of her as a girl. She wasn’t tall, not like you. No, Pippin—that’s what I called her, Pippin.” Sedgewick closed his eyes again and wrinkled his face against tears that welled up behind his eyelids. Recovering, he continued, “She was slight, not a big girl. And I know she wasn’t a girl anymore, but she was a girl to me. We married in 1920. I met her at my parents’ house, would you believe? She was visiting with her widowed mother, who knew my mother through the Women’s Institute, or the church Flowers Committee, something of that order.”

Sedgewick looked toward the garden, as if imagining that his dead wife would walk along the front path at any moment. Maisie knew that he held a vision of Philippa before him. An image began to form in her mind of a young woman in a plain, pale sea-green summer dress. She was wearing green cotton gloves to protect her fine hands while cutting roses in a myriad of colors, placing the blooms into a basket at her feet before looking up when she heard her husband’s footfall as he opened the gate and came toward her.

“I think our meeting was arranged by the mothers, actually.” Sedgewick smiled, a narrow smile of remembrance. “And we got on famously. She was shy at first—apparently she had been somewhat dark of mood since the war—but soon became quite buoyant. People said it was having a sweetheart that did it.”

Maisie made a mental note to delve a little deeper into the source of Philippa Sedgewick’s disquiet, but for now she wanted Sedgewick to be at ease with her as his confidante. She did not interrupt.

“We lived with her mother for a while after the wedding. It was a small affair in the village, nothing grand. Then we rented a flat for a couple of years, and when these houses were built in 1923, we snapped one up straightaway. Philippa had a small legacy from her father and I had my savings and some funds in a trust, so it wasn’t a stretch.” Sedgewick became silent and breathed deeply before continuing. “Of course, you buy a house like this for a family, but we were not to be blessed with children.” He stopped to address Maisie directly. “Heavens above, this must be far from what you want to hear, Miss Dobbs! I’m sorry.”

“Please continue Mr. . . . John. Please tell me about your wife.”

“Well, she was barren. Not her fault, of course. And the doctors weren’t much help, said there was nothing they could do. The first one, a gray-haired doddery old duffer, said that it was nothing that a couple of glasses of sherry each wouldn’t cure. The blithering idiot!”

“I am so sorry, John.”

“Anyway, we just sort of accepted that we were to remain a family of two. In fact, just before . . . just before the end. . . .” Sedgewick closed his eyes against images that now rushed forth, images that Maisie knew to be of his dead wife. Again he breathed deeply to combat his emotions. “Just before the end, we had planned to buy a puppy. Thought it would be company for her while I was at work. Mind you, she kept busy—reading to children at the local school one afternoon a week, that sort of thing—and she loved her garden. Trouble was, she blamed herself.”

“Blamed herself?” Maisie watched him closely.

“Yes. For being barren. Said that you reap what you sow.”

“Did she ever say what she meant?”

“Never. I just thought that she had dredged up every bad thing she’d ever done and heaped it on herself.” Sedgewick shrugged. “She was a good girl, my Pippin.”

Maisie leaned toward Sedgewick, just close enough for him to feel warmer and, subconsciously, more at ease.

“Can you tell me if your wife was troubled about anything else? Had there been any discord between her and any other person?”

“Pippin was not one to gush all over other people, or rush over to natter with the neighbors. But she was kind and thoughtful, knew if someone needed help and always passed the time of day if she saw someone she knew on the street. But . . . did you say ‘ever,’ Miss Dobbs?”

“I know that might be a tall assignment, John.”

“You know, I think she only ever walked out with one man before we met. She was shy with men. It was during the war, and she was quite young really, only seventeen or so, if that. If I remember correctly, she’d met him when she was in Switzerland. He was one of several young men paying attention to Pippin and her group, in fact, he courted all of them at some point. He ended up marrying one of her friends, who, I think, had nothing but trouble with him. Bit of a ladies’ man, he was.” Suddenly Sedgewick frowned, “You know, funny that should come to mind, because he was back in touch with her, I don’t know, must have been toward the end of last year. I’d all but forgotten about it.”

“Who was the man, and why had he made contact again? Do you know?”

“I have a terrible memory for names, but his was quite unusual. Not like your average ‘John,’ you know!” Sedgewick smiled faintly. “Apparently his wife, who, as I said, was an old friend of Pippin’s, was drinking heavily. He tracked down Pippin and telephoned to see if she could help at all, speak to the wife, try to get her on the straight and narrow. But they hadn’t been in touch for years and I don’t think Pippin wanted anything to do with it. She said no, and that was that. At least as far as I know. She told me that her friend probably drank to forget. Didn’t think much about it at the time. She said, ‘Everyone’s got something to help them forget things, haven’t they? She’s got the bottle, I’ve got my garden.’ Sounds a bit harsh, but I wouldn’t have wanted her to get involved with a woman like that.”

Maisie did not want to influence Sedgewick with her suspicions. “And you are sure you can’t recall his name? What letter did it begin with?”

“Oh dear, Miss Dobbs . . . it was, um . . .” Sedgewick rubbed his brow. “Um . . . I think it was
M
—yes, that’s it.
Muh, mih, mah . . . mah
. . . yes,
mah . . . mag
. . . Magnus! Yes, Magnus Fisher. Now I remember.”

“And his wife’s name was Lydia?”

“Yes, yes! Miss Dobbs, I do believe you knew all the time!”

“John, have you read the newspapers recently?”

“No, I can’t stand it! They always point the finger, and while Pippin is still somewhere on the front page, the finger is pointed at me.”

Maisie delved further. “The police haven’t returned since last week?”

“No. Of course they come to the house to check that I’m still here, and I’m not supposed to leave the area, pending the closure of inquiries, or whatever the official line is.”

Maisie was surprised that Stratton had not revisited Sedgewick since Lydia Fisher’s body was discovered. “John, Lydia Fisher was found dead—murdered—last week. A subsequent post-mortem examination suggested that there were similarities between your wife’s murder and Mrs. Fisher’s. I suspect the police have not spoken to you yet, pending further investigation. The press was rather too forthcoming with details of your wife’s murder and as there are those who will copy infamy, the police might not want to draw attention to similarities at this very early stage. I have no doubt, though, that the police—and the press—will be on your doorstep again soon.”

Sedgewick clutched his shoulders, rocking himself back and forth, then stood up, and began to pace. “They’ll think it was me, they’ll think it was me. . . .”

“Calm down, John, calm down. They will not think it’s you. I suspect that their conclusions will be quite the opposite.”

“Oh, that poor woman, that poor woman . . . and my poor Pippin.” John Sedgewick began to weep as he sat heavily in the armchair, and Maisie knelt so that he could lean upon her shoulder. All formalities of polite interaction between a woman and a man she did not know fell away as Maisie allowed her strength of spirit to seep into Sedgewick. Once again he fought for composure.

“I don’t understand; what does this mean?”

“I don’t know yet, but I intend to find out. Can you face more questions, John?”

John Sedgewick took an already soiled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and nose. “Yes.Yes, I’ll try, Miss Dobbs. And I am so sorry. . . .”

Maisie took her seat and raised her hand. “Don’t apologize. Grief should be aired, not buried. Do you know if your wife was also acquainted with a woman called Charlotte Waite?”

Sedgewick looked up at Maisie. “The Waite girl? Why, yes she was. Again, it was a long time ago, long before we met. I say, what is all this about, Miss Dobbs?”

“I’m not sure, John, I am simply picking up loose threads.”

“Charlotte and Lydia were part of the same—coterie, I think you’d call them. You know, a group of young girls who spend time together on Saturdays, have tea together, and then spend their allowances on trifles, that sort of thing.”

Maisie nodded, though as a young girl there had been no coterie for her, no trifles, only more errands to run and her chores below stairs to perform as efficiently and quickly as possible, leaving her more time to study.

“But they grew apart, you know, as people do. Charlotte was very wealthy, as was Lydia. Pippin was part of a certain social circle that, frankly, she did not choose to belong to as they matured. I think they all had a falling out, but as I said, this was long before Pippin and I began courting.”

“Was a woman called Rosamund part of the group?”

Sedgewick sighed, and pressed his hands to his eyes. “The name rings a bell. I might have heard the name ‘Rosie’—I don’t think I heard ‘Rosamund’; . . . no . . . not ‘Rosamund.’”

Maisie prepared to ask her next question, when he spoke first. “You know, I have just remembered something odd. Mind you, I don’t know if it’s of any use to you.”

“Go on.”

“Well, it’s about the Waite girl; her father, really. It must have been before we were married.” Sedgewick scratched his head, “I’m as bad with time as I am with names. Yes, it was before we were married, because I remember being in Pippin’s mother’s parlor. Now it’s coming back to me. I arrived at the house on my bicycle just as a rather large motor car was leaving. Too fast if you ask me, I remember the gravel spitting up and hitting me in the face. Anyway, the housekeeper let me in, said that Pippin was in the parlor. As I walked in she was there, drying her eyes: She’d been crying. I pleaded with her to tell me what was the matter, but she would only say that she had had some sort of crossed words with Mr. Waite, Charlotte’s father. I threatened to go after him, but she wouldn’t allow it and said that if I did, then she would never see me again. That it would never happen again, or something like that.”

“And she never revealed the cause of the discord?”

“Never. I suspected it might have to do with Charlotte. I thought perhaps that Pippin had told a lie on her behalf—you know, saying that Charlotte was with her, when she was really somewhere else. Apparently Charlotte was quite rebellious as a young girl. See, my memory’s warming up now!”

“Did your wife ever see Joseph Waite again? Or hear from him?”

“No, I don’t think she did. She never mentioned it. After we were married, we settled into a very ordinary life, especially here on Bluebell Avenue.”

Sedgewick looked drawn, almost overcome with fatigue.

“I will leave you in peace soon, John. But first, I understand that your housekeeper found Mrs. Sedgewick?”

“Yes, Mrs. Noakes. She comes in daily to clean and dust, prepare supper, that sort of thing. She had gone out for a couple of hours, to the shops, and when she came home, she found Pippin in the dining room. It appears she’d had someone to tea, which was unusual, because she hadn’t said that she was expecting a visitor or mentioned it to Mrs. Noakes.”

“And you were at work?”

“Yes, in the City. I’m a civil engineer, Miss Dobbs, so I was out at a site all afternoon. Plenty of people saw me, but of course, I was also traveling between places, which interests the police enormously. They sit there with their maps and train timetables trying to work out if I could have come home, murdered my wife, and been back on a building site in time for my next alibi.”

“I see. Would you show me the dining room?”

In contrast to the untidy kitchen and drawing room, the dining room was immaculate, though evidence of police presence was everywhere throughout the house. It was clear that a thorough investigation had taken place in the room where Philippa Sedgewick had met her death.

“There wasn’t any blood to speak of.” The tendons in Sedgewicks throat became taut as he spoke of his wife’s murder. “Apparently the murderer drugged her with something first, before . . . before using the knife.”

“Yes.” Maisie walked around the room, observing but not touching. All surfaces were clean, with only a thin layer of dust. She walked to the window and opened the curtains to allow natural light to augment the grainy electric illumination. Fingerprinting was used widely now and Maisie could see residues of powder where police had tested for dabs left by the murderer. Yes, Stratton’s men had done a thorough job.

As if reading her mind, Sedgewick spoke. “Inspector Stratton isn’t such a bad chap. No, not too bad. It’s that sergeant of his that makes my skin crawl, Caldwell. He was a nasty piece of work. Have you met him?”

Maisie was preoccupied with scanning the nooks and crannies of the dining room, but an image of the small, brisk man with a pointed nose and a cold stare came to mind. “Only once or twice.”