Birds of a Feather (30 page)

“Oh no. I’d never find a thing!” he replied with an impish grin. “Look, would you be free for a spot of lunch after you’ve seen Mrs. Hicks?”

“Well . . . visiting time at Pembury is at four, so . . . as long as I’m on my way again by one-thirtyish. I like to leave plenty of time.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do. We can walk along by the net shops and perhaps have some fish and chips. There are no posh restaurants down there, it’s all a bit spit and sawdust. But you’ll never taste fish like it anywhere else in the world.”

A
s Maisie parked the MG outside Rosamund Thorpe’s house on the West Hill, Mrs. Hicks opened the front door to greet her.

“Thank you for getting in touch, Mrs. Hicks, I do appreciate it.”

“Oh, Miss Dobbs, I’m only glad to help. I had the feeling that you were acting in Mrs. Thorpe’s best interests, so when I remembered, I thought I’d better get in touch. Hope you don’t mind me asking Dr. Dene. Such a nice man.” She closed the door behind Maisie and led her into the drawing room, where a teapot and two cups were set on a tray with some biscuits.

Maisie took a seat on the settee and once again removed her gloves. Despite extra clothing she still felt the cold, in her hands as much as in her feet.

Mrs. Hicks poured tea for Maisie, passed her cup, then offered biscuits which Maisie declined. She would need to leave space for a hearty helping of fish and chips. “Right. I expect you’ll want me to get straight to the point.”

“Yes, please. It really is important that I understand why Mrs. Thorpe might have taken her own life or, on the other hand, who might have wanted her dead.”

“Well, as you know, I’ve racked my brains trying to answer the first question, and haven’t had much luck with the second. Everyone thought well of Mrs. Thorpe. Then I remembered a visit; years ago, it was, not long after she was married. Probably not long after the war, either. Joseph Waite—”

Maisie set her cup into the saucer with a clatter.

“Is that tea cold, Miss?”

“No . . . no, not at all. Please continue, Mrs. Hicks.” Reaching into her document case, she took out an index card and began to make notes.

“Well, anyway, Joseph Waite—he’s the father of one of her old friends. Mind you, they hadn’t seen each other for years and years, not since the war. Anyway, Mr. Waite came here, big motor car and a chauffeur and all, and asked to see Mrs. Thorpe. Perhaps he didn’t know her married name, because he took liberties. What he actually said was, ‘I’d like to see Rosie.’ It was the first I knew that she used to be called Rosie, and I thought it was a bit of a cheek, calling a respectable married woman by the name of Rosie—in fact,
any
woman, when I come to think of it.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I showed him into the front parlor, then informed Mrs. Thorpe that she had a caller and who he was. She was shaken, I know that. Didn’t like it at all. Said, ‘Thank heavens Mr. Thorpe isn’t here’; then, ‘You will keep this to yourself, won’t you, Mrs. Hicks?’ And I never told anyone, until now.”

“What happened?”

“Well, she goes into the parlor to greet him, like the lady she was, and he was all huffy. Didn’t want tea or any refreshment. Just says he wants to speak to her in private, looking across at me. So I was dismissed.”

“Do you know what he came to see her about?”

“No, sorry, Miss, I don’t. But he was angry, and he got her all upset, he did.”

“Did you hear anything?”

Mrs. Hicks sighed and tried to gather her thoughts. “Of course, at my age, you forget things, but him I remember. These houses are built like fortresses, on account of the wind and storms. Built for Admiral Nelson’s lieutenants, they were, originally. You can’t hear much through these walls. But he upset her, I do know that. And as he was leaving the parlor—he’d opened the door, so I heard everything—he said something . . . well, threatening, I suppose you’d call it.”

“What was it?”

“He said ‘You’ll pay. You’ll all pay one day. Mark my words, my girl, you will pay.’ Then he left, slamming the front door behind him so hard I thought the house would fall down. Mind you, as it’s been here this long, the likes of Joseph Waite won’t hurt it now!”

Mrs. Hicks was quiet for a while before speaking again, this time with less forcefulness.

“But you know what was the strangest thing?”

“What was that, Mrs. Hicks?” Maisie’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper.

“I came out of the dining room, where I had been arranging some flowers, when I heard the parlor door open. I wanted to be ready to show him out. Well, he held up his hand to me, like this”—Mrs. Hicks held her arm out as a London bobby might when stopping traffic— “when he’d finished speaking, to stop me from coming toward him. Then he turned away quickly. You see, Miss, he was crying. That man had tears streaming down his face. I don’t know whether it was anger or sadness, or what it was. But . . . very confusing it was, what with Mrs. Thorpe so upset, too.”

That the control-obsessed Joseph Waite had lost his composure did not surprise Maisie, for she knew that when such people cross an emotional boundary, it often leads to a breakdown. She remembered Billy’s despair, and those times when she, too, had known such sadness, and as she did so, her heart ached not only for Rosamund but, strangely, for Joseph Waite. Whatever else he might have done, this was a man who had truly known sorrow.

“Did he come here again?”

“Never. And I would have known about it if he had.”

“And she never took you into her confidence, about the reason for his visit?”

“No. Seemed to me like he wanted to make her as miserable as he was.”

“Hmmm. Mrs. Hicks, I know I’ve already asked you this, but I must be sure: Do you really think that Mrs. Thorpe’s death was caused by someone else?”

The housekeeper hesitated, turning her wedding ring around on her finger repeatedly before replying.

“Yes, I do. There is some wavering in my heart. And I can’t be sure because I wasn’t here. But to take her own life? I do doubt it very much, very much indeed. She seemed to be on a mission to help people, especially those men who’d been to war, the ones who were just boys, wounded boys.”

The clock on the mantelpiece began to strike a quarter to twelve.

“Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Hicks. You have been very helpful once again.”

Mrs Hicks took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her moist eyes.

Maisie stood and placed an arm around the housekeeper’s shoulder. “Oh, Mrs. Hicks, you must miss her very much.”

“Oh, I do, Miss Dobbs. I do miss her very much. Mrs. Thorpe was a lovely, kind woman, and too young to die. I haven’t even had the heart to send her clothes away, like Mr. Thorpe’s children told me to do.”

Maisie felt a sensation of touch, as if another hand had gently been placed upon her own as it lay on Mrs. Hicks shoulder. A picture of Rosamund had formed in her mind.

“Mrs. Hicks, was Mrs. Thorpe in mourning attire when she died?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she was. Her nice black dress, very proper, yet fashionable. She wasn’t a dowdy one, Mrs. Thorpe, always beautifully turned out.”

“Was she buried in—”

“The dress? Oh no, I couldn’t allow that, not going into the cold ground in her widow’s weeds. No, I made sure she was in her lovely silk dressing gown. Like a sleeping beauty, she was. No, the dress she was wearing is in the wardrobe. I put it away as soon as I’d dressed her. Didn’t want strangers putting clothes on her so I dressed her myself. I thought I should throw it out, the black dress, but I couldn’t bring myself to.”

“May I see the garment, please?”

Mrs Hicks seemed surprised at the request, but nodded. “Well, of course, Miss Dobbs. Through here.”

Mrs. Hicks led the way into the bedroom, where she opened a mahogany wardrobe and took out a black low-waisted dress in fine wool with a silk sash that matched silk binding at the neckline and cuffs. There were two elegant patch pockets on the bodice, each rimmed with black silk.

Maisie held up the dress by the hanger, then walked to the bed and laid the garment out in front of her.

“And the dress has not been cleaned since?”

“No, I put it straight in the wardrobe, with mothballs of course.”

Maisie nodded and turned to the dress again. As Mrs. Hicks moved to open the window to “let some air in here,” Maisie reached into the left pocket and searched inside carefully. Nothing. She leaned over and looked down into the right pocket and again reached inside. Something pricked at the pillowed skin on the underside of her fingertips. Maintaining contact, with her other hand Maisie reached into her own pocket for a clean handkerchief, which she opened before carefully pulling out the object that had so lightly grazed her fingertips. The soft white feather of a fledgling. She inspected her catch briefly before placing it in the waiting handkerchief, which she quickly returned to her jacket pocket.

“Everything all right, Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes, it’s lovely. Such a shame to waste a beautiful dress, yet it’s tinged with so much grief.”

“I thought the same myself. I should’ve burned it, really I should. Perhaps that’s what I’ll do.”

The dress might be evidence, and must not be lost. Maisie cautioned the housekeeper, careful not to cause alarm. “Oh no, don’t do that. Please keep it—look, I think I know someone who could make good use of the dress. Shall I let you know?”

The housekeeper nodded. “Well, it is too good to destroy. I’ll keep it until I hear from you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hicks. You’ve been most kind, especially as I came unannounced and on short notice.”

“Oh, but you weren’t unannounced. Dr. Dene said to help you in any way I could. That you were completely trustworthy and acting in Mrs. Thorpe’s best interests. You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for your lunch.”

“How did you know?”

“It was just a good guess, Miss Dobbs. Dr. Dene seemed a bit too sparky when I told him I had some information for you, as if he quite liked the idea of speaking to you again himself. Now, it’s none of my business, and it’s not how it would have been done in my day, not when Mr. Hicks and I were walking out together. But I thought he might invite you to have a spot of lunch with him today. He had that sound in his voice.”

Maisie blushed. “And what sound is that, Mrs. Hicks?”

“Oh, you know. That sound. The one that a gentleman has when he’s pleased with himself.”

Maisie suppressed a smile and said good-bye to Mrs. Hicks. Though she was looking forward to lunch with Andrew Dene, she was also anxious to be alone, to spread out the index cards that she had made notes on, to assess what this morning’s gathering of information meant. The picture was becoming clearer, as if each conversation were a series of brushstrokes adding color and depth to a story that was now unfolding quite rapidly. She had three feathers, evidence that the three deaths were linked, and that Rosamund Thorpe, too, had most definitely been murdered.

She drove down the hill to meet Andrew Dene, by the fishing boats at the place where the old horse turned the winch that brought the boats ashore, wishing she could get back to London, yet feeling guilty for wishing because of her father’s need for her. She was anxious to sit with Billy at the incident table with all their clues, suspicions, evidence, hunches, and scribbles laid out in front of them. She wanted to find the key, the answer to her question: What was the connection between three small white feathers, three dead women and their murderer? And how was Joseph Waite involved? She felt for the handkerchief in her pocket, and patted it.

“Thank you, Rosamund,” she said, as she placed her hand on the steering wheel again.

Maisie parked the car at the bottom of the High Street, to much attention by passersby. As she walked along the seafront, where seagulls and pigeons followed pedestrians in the hope that a breadcrumb or two would be dropped, she made a mental note to ask Billy why he couldn’t stand pigeons.

The weather was crisp, but fine enough for Andrew Dene and Maisie to walk to the pier after a quick fish-and-chips lunch. The sun was higher in the sky and had it been warmer, one might have thought it summer.

“I cannot believe you removed all that lovely batter before eating the fish!” Andrew Dene teased Maisie.

“I love the fish, but don’t really care for batter. Mind you, the chips were tasty.”

“But you fed most of them to the seagulls, and they’re fat enough already!”

They walked in silence. Maisie looked at her watch once again.

“Do you know how many times in one minute you’ve looked at your watch? I know you can’t find my company
that
tedious. You should break yourself of the habit.”

“I beg your pardon?” Maisie’s eyes widened. She had never met a man of such impertinence. “I was going to say that I ought to be turning around, to get to my motor by—”

“Half past one? Ish? Yes, I haven’t forgotten. Have you made any headway today, Miss Dobbs?”

“I’ve certainly gleaned more information, Doctor. It’s putting the pieces together in a logical form that’s the challenge. Sometimes it’s guesswork all the way.”

“Anything more I can do to help?” They were strolling back to the car, Maisie consciously keeping her hands deep in the pockets of her raincoat, holding tight to the linen handkerchief that held the third feather. She would not look at her watch again until she was well away from Andrew Dene.

“No . . . yes, yes there is, actually. Tell me, Dr. Dene, if you were to name one thing that made the difference between those who get well quickly and those who don’t, what would it be?”

“Phew. Another simple question from Maisie Dobbs!”

“I’m serious.”

“And so am I. It’s a tricky one, and one that you are probably more qualified to answer than I. You were a nurse and, more important, you have training in psychological matters.”

“I’d like your opinion. Please, take a stab at it.” Maisie turned toward him as she walked, challenging Dene to respond.

“Well, if I were to name one thing, it would be acceptance.”

“Acceptance? But doesn’t that stop the injured or wounded from trying to get better?”