Birds of a Feather (28 page)

Her brain was in top gear as she sped along the country lanes to Chelstone, a list of things to do growing in her mind.

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle . . .

But before she did anything, before she bathed, took nourishment, or slept, she must go to Maurice. Maisie leaned sideways toward the passenger seat and, keeping her eyes on the road, reached inside the document case to feel the linen handkerchief into which she had carefully placed the tiny items she had taken from the homes of Lydia Fisher and Philippa Sedgewick. She wanted to share her delicate clues with Maurice. She wanted his counsel.

Maisie slowed as she drove along the gravel carriage sweep leading to Chelstone Manor. As grit began to spit and crackle under the tires, she rubbed her eyes against the onslaught of spring sunshine rising at a low angle into a clearing sky. It would be a bright but cold day. Frost-dusted daffodil heads bobbed in columns along the driveway, inter- spersed with bluebells and primroses. Yes, it would be a good day. Frankie Dobbs was out of the woods.

The upstairs curtains at the Dower House were still closed; Maurice was not yet up and about. Maisie felt a tinge of frustration, but she checked herself. Perhaps it was fortunate that she would have more time alone to marshal her thoughts and to anticipate questions. She missed working with Maurice, though awareness of the chasm left by his retirement was fading as she grew in skill and confidence. She maneuvered the car into the courtyard behind the manor house, the domain of George, the Comptons’ chauffeur.

“Mornin’, Miss.” George wiped his hands on a clean white cloth and walked across the flagstones toward Maisie. “Blimey O’Reilly, what’ve you been doin’ with that little motor of yours? Racin’ ’er at Brooklands? I’d better get the full kit out this mornin’.You’ll need oil, a good cleaning under the bonnet, to say nothing of ’er paintwork. And look at them tires!”

“You’re the man for the job, George!”

“Actually, Miss, it’ll be nice to ’ave something to get me teeth into.” George lifted the bonnet, then turned to Maisie again. “How’s Mr. Dobbs this mornin’? Better?”

“Much better, thank you. He’s awake, though it might be a while before he’s up on his feet.”

“Fair gave us all a shock, did that. Everyone’s waitin’ for news.”

“I’ll see that the household is kept posted. Can I leave Lily with you then? I’ll need her by three this afternoon—to be at Pembury by visiting time.”

“
Lily
? You give a car like this the name ‘Lily’?”

Maisie smiled, then laughed. “By three, thank you, George.”

“Right you are, Miss. By the way, I saw ’er Ladyship walking over to the stables a little while ago.”

“Oh, good. I’d better give her the latest news.”

Lady Rowan was leaning on a fence surrounding the paddock adjacent to the stable where Frankie Dobbs had fallen. She seemed thoughtful as Maisie approached. The older woman’s three canine companions, investigating bushes alongside, lifted their heads and greeted her with tails wagging.

“My dear girl, how is your father? I have been beside myself with worry.”

“He is better, Lady Rowan, much better, though I will know more this afternoon when I see his doctor.”

“Your father, Maisie, may well surprise us all. I think he’ll live until he’s one hundred years old!” Lady Rowan looked at Maisie with more gravity as she, too, leaned on the fence to watch mare and foal together. “You will not have to worry about convalescence, Maisie. Your father’s recovery is in my interests, and the costs of any necessary procedures or care—”

“Thank you, Lady Rowan.”

“Good.” Lady Rowan turned to the paddock. “So what do you think of him?”

Maisie watched the foal standing under the protective custody of his mother’s head and neck. His chestnut coat shone with newborn softness, the tufted promise of a rich, thick mane standing up like a shoe-brush on his long and delicate neck. The foal’s legs were surprisingly straight, and as the two women watched him, Maisie could swear she detected a certain defiance in his manner.

“He’s quite . . . quite the little man, isn’t he?”

“Oh yes, he certainly is, and only a day old, mind you.” Lady Rowan continued to regard her new project closely. “Thought I’d call him ‘Francis Dobbs’ Dilemma. But no, he’ll be named Chelstone Dream. Apt, don’t you think? I’ll call him ‘Dreamer’ for short.”

The foal stared at them intently in return.

“You see that look, Maisie? The way he’s standing?”

Maisie nodded. “Yes.”

“They call that ‘the look of champions,’ Maisie. He’s the one; he’ll do it for me. In four or five years he’ll bring home The Derby for me— I know it! Can’t you just see Gordon Richards atop Chelstone Dream, flying past the post at Epsom?” Lady Rowan became pensive again. “But in the meantime, what will I do without your father?”

“Ah,” said Maisie. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

Lady Rowan laughed, her voice cutting through the morning quiet in such a way that the mare started, and moved her foal to the back of the paddock. “I would have put money on your having a plan, Maisie. What is it?”

“I’ll tell you this evening, Lady Rowan, when I’ve sorted out a few details.” She looked at her watch. “But I have to telephone my assistant, then I must see Maurice. May I use the telephone at the manor?”

“Of course. I shall expect to see you for supper this evening, when you can give me news of your father’s progress. And I cannot wait to hear your plan!”

Maisie looked back at the foal as she made her way toward the manor house. And she could have sworn that Dreamer, the foal with the look of champions, had watched her every move.

“Billy, I’m glad I’ve caught you!”

“ ’Oldin’ the fort, Miss. ’Oldin’ the fort. How’s Mr. Dobbs?”

“Much better, thank you. Out of the woods. What happened when you canceled our appointment with Waite?”

“Well, at the beginnin’, I ’ad to give a message to ’is secretary, who then ’ad to speak to ’im. Poor woman, you’d ’ve thought I’d asked ’er to tell ’im that ’is shops’d all burned down. Scared of ’im, she is, scared silly.”

“Billy—”

“Anyway, she went off; then Waite ’imself comes on the blower, boomin’ down the pipe ’e was, boomin’ about how ’e was Joseph Waite and that no one does this to ’im.”

“Oh dear.”

“Then I told ’im what the reason for you not bein’ available was, and I must say, ’e wound ’is neck in a bit sharpish. Funny that, innit? Says somethin’ about family comin’ first, and that it was nice to know that a daughter ’onored ’er father, and all that.”

“Can he see me soon?”

“Made an appointment for Friday, sayin’ that I just ’ad to let ’im know if there were any difficulties, and that you was to let ’im know if ’e could be of service. Very strange man, Miss. Very odd, that about-turn.”

“He’s certainly odd where family are concerned, I’ll give you that.” Maisie paused as she noted the details. “With a bit of luck I’ll have good news for Waite. I’m going to Camden Abbey tomorrow, to speak with Charlotte.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve got your plate full.”

“My father’s not allowed any visitors until late this afternoon, and probably only once a day until the doctor says anything to the contrary, so I’ll be able to work on the case while I’m here.”

“Right then. Dr. Dene telephoned again.”

“Really?”

“Yep. And it’s interestin’ because ’e wanted to leave a message for you about your visit to see—let me look ’ere. I tell you, Miss, I can’t even read me own writin’ sometimes—Mrs. Thorpe’s housekeeper.”

“What was the message?”

“Didn’t say, except ’e wanted to pass on a message from ’er, that she’d like to see you again. She remembered something that might be useful.”

Maisie wrote notes on an index card as she spoke to Billy, and checked her watch.

“I’ll
make
time.”

“Awright, Miss. Anythin’ else?”

“Actually, there is. You know we spoke about your coming down to Chelstone for a while, perhaps a month or so? And you didn’t want to ‘sit on your duff,’ I think you said?” Without pausing to allow Billy to reply, Maisie said, “Well, I’ve got something for you to do that’s vital to me and to Lady Rowan. Billy, it’s to do with Chelstone Dream, the odds-on favorite to win the Derby in 1934.”

Before she was able to retreat to the Groom’s Cottage, Maisie fielded inquiries about her father’s health from Carter and Mrs. Crawford. As she walked into her father’s home, Maisie shivered. Never before had she felt a chill in the house, yet today the heavy dew outside seemed to permeate the stone walls and storm windows, creeping into each nook and cranny to claim a place.

Well, this won’t do!
thought Maisie as she looked around the cottage.

Her father had obviously left in a hurry to tend to the mare. An enamel teapot three-quarters filled with old cold tea sat on the table; a loaf of bread, now crusty and hard around the edges, had been roughly cut and not returned to the bread bin. The butter dish and a jar of Mrs. Crawford’s homemade three-fruit marmalade were open on the table, with a sticky knife set on a plate. Maisie smiled, imagining her father hurriedly drinking scalding tea, quickly spreading a doorstep-like slice of bread with marmalade, then running out to get to the stable. She set about cleaning the room before seeking the comfort of a hot bath.

She lit the fire and set two large kettles of water on the hotplate, along with a cauldron usually used for soup. She dragged a tin bathtub from a hook in the scullery and placed it on the floor in front of the stove, ready to receive the scalding water, which she would cool to stepping-in temperature with cold water from the tap. She closed the curtains, locked the doors and went to the small box-like bedroom that had once been her own. Opening a wardrobe, she wondered if she would find anything to wear. She touched garments that should have been given to the rag-and-bone man years ago. There were her clothes from university years, the cast-offs from Lady Rowan so expertly fitted for her by Mrs. Crawford’s dexterous needlewoman’s fingers. There was the blue ball gown given her by Priscilla, her friend at Girton. As she touched the cool blue silk, she thought of Simon, of the party where they had danced the night away. Shaking off the memories, Maisie pulled out a pair of rather baggy brown trousers that had also been given her by Priscilla, at a time when women who wore trousers were considered “fast.”

As soon as she had found an old pair of leather walking shoes, Maisie took a clean white collarless shirt from her father’s chest of drawers, along with a pair of socks to complete her ensemble for the day. She would find an old corduroy jacket hanging up in the scullery, or she would simply wear her mackintosh while waiting for her clothes to be cleaned up at the manor. She’d not had time to pack a bag before leaving for Kent, but she could make do.

Maisie prepared her bath, opened the door to the fire and settled down to soak before embarking on the rest of her day. She began to soap her body, wondering what Rosamund Thorpe’s housekeeper might want to speak to her about. The Old Town in Hastings housed a small community, and Maisie imagined the grieving woman remembering something, some vital piece of information, after her visit. Then, not knowing how she might contact Maisie—for she would not readily have used her former employer’s telephone—Mrs. Hicks would have sought out Dr. Andrew Dene hoping that he might pass on a message for Maisie to see her when next in Hastings. But why did she not simply tell Dene what it was that she had remembered? Maisie suspected that the loyal housekeeper probably would consider such a disclosure tantamount to gossip.
And that would never do
. She soaped her shoulders and with a cloth allowed hot water to run across her neck. Rosamund Thorpe, Lydia Fisher and Philippa Sedgewick. Maisie saw each woman in her mind’s eye.
What have you in common? Charlotte Waite, why did you run?
Four women. Four women who had known each other years ago. A coterie. A coterie of young girls on the cusp of womanhood.
What did that feel like?
Maisie closed her eyes, plunging her thoughts once again into the past. The library at Ebury Place, Girton, old clothes from Lady Rowan, the blue ball gown, Priscilla laughing as she pressed another cigarette into an ivory holder, the London Hospital . . .
France
. When she had been little more than a girl, she had served almost at the battlefront herself. Still sitting in the cooling water, Maisie allowed her thoughts to wander further.
What did
you
do during the war, you sheltered young women cocooned in your world of privilege, your safe little circle?

A sharp knock at the door jolted Maisie from her reflections. Unwilling to interrupt her train of thought, she did not move, did not reach for a towel hanging over the back of a chair, did not call out, Just a minute! Instead, she silently waited until she heard the rustle of paper being poked under the door, and footsteps receding along the garden path. She settled back into the water for just a few more minutes, the now-blazing fire keeping her warm.
Rosamund, Lydia, Philippa and . . . Charlotte. What did you do in the war? And if Charlotte, too, is in danger, why does someone want you all dead?

A note had been delivered by Maurice Blanche’s housekeeper, inviting Maisie to join him for breakfast. She dressed quickly, pulling on trousers, white shirt and the pair of brown leather walking shoes which, she thought, were set off quite nicely by her father’s best Argyll socks. Before leaving the groom’s cottage, Maisie took her folded linen handkerchief from the document case and slipped it into the pocket of the old jacket she had found, as predicted, hanging up in the scullery. Instead of drawing her hair back into a tidy chignon, Maisie plaited her long tresses into a loose braid so that, walking toward the manor house with her clothes folded under one arm, she caused Mrs. Crawford— who was on an expedition into the far reaches of the kitchen garden— to exclaim, “Maisie Dobbs, you look five and ten all over again!”