Birds of a Feather (22 page)

“Just as well. He all but accused me when they took me in for questioning. Stratton was kinder. Mind you, I’ve heard that they do that, you know, play nice and nasty so that the suspect either gets unsettled or too relaxed before the other goes for the jugular.”

Maisie looked on each surface and under each piece of furniture. Sedgewick, who was now very much at ease in her company, seemed to ramble in conversation. Maisie touched a place on the floor, then brought her fingers close to her nose.

“I heard two of the constables speaking. Apparently Stratton lost his wife in childbirth five years ago. Got a little boy at home and is bringing him up alone. It would make him more understanding, I suppose.”

Maisie had been kneeling. She stood so quickly that her head spun.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Dobbs. Yes, he’s a widower. Just like me.”

Maisie quickly completed her investigation, taking care not to let her desire to be alone, to gather her thoughts, distract her from the job at hand. She might not have another opportunity. But there seemed to be nothing that spoke to her here except John Sedgewick’s grief.

“It’s time for me to go, John. Will you be all right?”

“Yes, I will. Speaking about Pippin seems to have fortified me. I should
do
something, I suppose. Tidy the house, that sort of thing. Mrs. Noakes has been too upset to come back, though she did write to say that she believes me innocent. Which is heartwarming, considering that my own sister and mother are keeping well away, and Pippin’s mother is too full of grief to visit.”

“Perhaps if you open the curtains, you’ll feel even better. Let the light in, John.”

Sedgewick smiled. “I could probably do with getting out into the garden. It was always Pippin’s domain, you know, the garden. Since she was a child she loved to grow things.”

“Enjoy the garden. After all, she planted it for both of you.”

As Maisie turned to leave, she felt a pressure in the middle of her back, as if she was being restrained. She gasped at the sensation, and realized that she had missed something, something she should not have overlooked.

“John, is there someplace here, a part of the garden, perhaps, that your wife particularly liked? Did she have a potting shed or greenhouse, that sort of thing?”

“Yes, at the side of the house here. In fact, Mrs. Noakes said that Pippin was in there when she left to go shopping. She loved the greenhouse. I designed it for her. You’ll see, it has three parts: a traditional glass section for bringing on seedlings; a shed with windows so that she would have a shaded area for potting; then the third part is a sort of conservatory, where she had her exotics, and where she would sit in her armchair with a gardening book. I don’t think I ever saw her with another type of book. Let me show you.”

Sedgewick led the way to the side of the house, where a willow tree obscured Philippa Sedgewick’s horticultural sanctuary from street view. Maisie entered, and immediately felt the humid warmth of a well-tended greenhouse, along with the pungent salty aroma of young geraniums growing in terra-cotta pots. She walked slowly along an inner path, to a stable door of wood and glass. Opening top and bottom, Maisie entered the musky potting shed, then walked through to the small conservatory-cum-sitting-room on the other side: the dead woman’s own special domain.

It reminded her of the winter garden where Simon sat with his blanket and his secrets. A wicker chair with green and rose cushions was still indented, as if the owner had only just risen. It seemed so warm that a cat would have immediately claimed the place. Once again Maisie paced, and was immediately drawn to a gardening book set on a table beside the chair. She opened the front cover and leafed through until the book seemed to fall open at the point where Philippa Sedgewick had set her bookmark, perhaps when the killer had come to call. She imagined Philippa hearing the sharp rap of the door knocker in the distance, quickly marking her place and jumping up to answer the door. Or had the killer come to look for her when his knock was not answered? If he was an acquaintance, she would have marked her place and offered tea.

Geranium.
Pelargonium
. Maisie ran her finger down the spine of the book, and as she did so, she felt a faint prickle. Looking more closely, she reached in and carefully took out the spiny yet smooth source of the sensation.
Yes, yes, yes
.

Maisie placed her find within a handkerchief while John Sedgewick was looking at a rather large waxy green plant in the corner. “Of course, I couldn’t tell one from the other, though Pippin could name every one, and in Latin. I think that’s the only reason she studied Latin in school, to learn more about plants.”

“I learned Latin once myself, simply to better understand another subject. I’d better be going, John. Thank you so much for your help, you have been most kind.”

Sedgewick held out his hand to Maisie. “Well, it was a dodgy start, wasn’t it? But I think you have helped me more than I’ve assisted you.”

“Oh, you have helped, John. Enormously. I am sure that you’ll be seeing Detective Inspector Stratton soon, and I’d appreciate it if no mention is made of my visit here today.”

“Not a word, Miss Dobbs, not a word. But, before you go, what case are you working on, if I may ask?”

“It has to do with a missing person.” She left at once, to avoid further questions. She needed to think. Starting the MG as quickly as she could, Maisie pushed the motor car into gear. She turned to look at Number Fourteen Bluebell Avenue one last time before speeding off, and saw John Sedgewick walk slowly toward his wife’s roses, then reach down to pull some weeds. Later, as she moved into traffic to return to London, Maisie thought not of Sedgewick but of Richard Stratton. A man who had lost his wife, too. And she thought of the chance discovery she had made, which she would now take back to her rooms and place with the twin that she had carefully wrapped in another linen handkerchief while standing in Lydia Fisher’s drawing room.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
he gas fire was turned off, so the room was cold by the time Maisie arrived back at the office on Sunday evening. On the desk in front of her she saw a single sheet of paper filled with Billy’s large, primary school handwriting, along with several unopened envelopes placed separately on the desk so that Maisie could view each one individually before slicing it open. Billy had had a productive Saturday morning.

“Brrr. Let’s see: Cantwell bill sent out, good. Lady Rowan telephoned, no message. Andrew Dene . . . Andrew Dene? Hmmm.” Maisie raised her eyebrows and continued. “Returned folders to solicitors—” The telephone rang.

“Fitzroy five six double O.”

“Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes.”

“It’s John Sedgewick here. Glad I caught you.”

“Do you have some news, Mr. Sedgewick?” Maisie deliberately reverted to a more formal address.

“Yes I do. I thought you’d like to know that Detective Inspector Stratton and the obnoxious Caldwell came to the house after you left. They were asking about that Magnus Fisher.”

“Really? What did they want to know?”

“Well, more about his contact with Pippin. I told them what I told you. There wasn’t more to tell. Don’t worry, I did not breathe a word about your being here. But Stratton gave me something to think about.”

“And that is?”

“It turns out that Pippin
did
see Fisher. He’d returned from one of his expeditions about two months ago, and it was during that time that they met. He went off again for a couple of weeks, then came back again. Apparently the dates of his return trips almost mirror the dates of Pippin and Mrs. Fisher’s murders, so the police are interested in him.”

“Did they say anything about motive?”

“No. Stratton gave me the ‘all avenues’ line again, and asked if
I
knew Lydia Fisher. They also asked me—again, I might add—the most intimate details about my marital happiness.”

“All in the line of duty, Mr. Sedgewick. No doubt they asked you to speculate as to why Mrs. Sedgewick met with Fisher.”

“Yes, and I said that I thought she might have been trying to help in some way, given Mrs. Fisher’s problems. I thought they were suggesting that there was something, you know, ‘going on’ between Pippin and Fisher, especially as they had walked out together in earlier years. It really is most distressing, Miss Dobbs.”

“Of course it is, and I sympathize, Mr. Sedgewick. However, the police really are just trying to do their job. They want to find the killer before he strikes again.”

“It’s very difficult for me, yet I know you’re right.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sedgewick. You were most kind to telephone. Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. And you know, this evening one of my neighbors came to the house with some shepherd’s pie, said she hadn’t wanted to come around while the curtains were closed, and that they were so very sorry about Pippin. Mind you, she did bring her husband with her; she wasn’t
that
sure about me.”

“It’s a start, though. Goodnight, Mr. Sedgewick.”

“Yes, goodnight, Miss Dobbs.”

Magnus Fisher. Possible, thought Maisie, always possible. He had pursued Philippa and each of her friends. And he’d married Lydia. Had there been other, deeper relationships between Fisher and Rosamund and Charlotte? Had an earlier interest in these women lingered and faded, only to reignite and flare out of control later? She looked down and read on through Billy’s notes.

“Lady Rowan again . . . definitely not returning to Ebury Place for another fortnight at least.”

Maisie smiled at the next note, which was from Billy.

Dear Miss,

It’s nice to have you back here in London. I will be in sharp, nice and early tomorrow morning. Hope you had a nice time in Kent.

Yours sincerely,
Billy Beale

Maisie could almost see Billy Beale as a boy, his wheaten hair disheveled and matted, freckles speckling his nose, his tongue clamped tightly between his teeth as he concentrated on sweeping his dipping pen up and down, up and down, as he constructed a letter. No doubt his teacher had emphasized use of the word
nice
.

Maisie perused each sealed envelope in turn until she came to a hand she knew so well, an unmistakable fine copperplate in blue-black ink. She turned the envelope over, to reveal the Camden Abbey wax seal. Underneath the address were the words “By Hand,” so the letter had obviously been delivered by later visitor to the abbey who had returned immediately to London, arriving before Maisie. Taking her Victorinox knife, Maisie slit the envelope open to reveal a folded sheet of crisp cream linen paper, so heavy it was almost card, upon which Dame Constance had written her letter:

Dear Maisie,

How lovely it was to see you at Camden Abbey. A visit from one of my most memorable students is always an event of great joy, but I confess I would like to see a little more weight on your bones!

I will not fill my communiqué with more pleasantries, dear Maisie, but instead will come straight to the point as I must take advantage of delivery of this letter by a visitor from London who will be leaving shortly. I have counseled Miss Waite to see you, and she has agreed. Her confidence is due to the safety and refuge offered her by the community, so I must request that you honor my trust in you to proceed with integrity. Dame Judith has said that Miss Waite should rest for two or three days as she has caught that terrible cold we’ve all had. I suggest you come on Thursday morning.

Yours sincerely,
Dame Constance Charteris

“Good.” Maisie sat at her desk, leaned back and smiled. She had no doubt that Dame Constance’s powers of persuasion had been brought to bear on Charlotte, though she wished they had resulted in a more timely interview. She would have to choose her words carefully when meeting with Joseph Waite on Tuesday.

When she left the office a heavy smog seemed, once again, to be spiraling around the trees on the square, and she could barely see the streetlamps. In the distance, she could hear both the clip-clop of hooves, and the pop and chug of motor cars ferrying people—better-off people—home from a Sunday excursion, or out to supper. Sound was distorted not only by the darkness but by the smog. She wished she were in Kent, to see the stars at night and silent fields illuminated by a full moon.

Had she already met the killer? Had they passed in the street outside Lydia Fisher’s home? Was Charlotte Waite involved, or was her flight from her father’s house simply the action of a woman who could no longer be treated as a girl? Could she
be
the killer? Or was she afraid of becoming the next victim? What of Magnus Fisher? What motive could he have for killing his wife and two of her acquaintances? Had something happened in Switzerland years ago? Something the women knew about that was so serious that he would kill to ensure their silence? What could Charlotte tell her about Fisher? And what of her tiny shreds of evidence, carefully preserved? Or were they nothing at all, just household detritus?