Birds of a Feather (32 page)

The sitting room door opened quietly and a woman of average height entered the room at the same time as the sliding door behind the iron grille that separated Dame Constance from visitors opened again with a thud.

Maisie studied Charlotte quickly. She wore a gray skirt, a long woolen cardigan knitted in a fine gauge, a plain white blouse, black shoes and opaque stockings. Her mousy hair, parted in the center and drawn back into a loose bun, seemed to form a pair of curtains framing her face. Her only color came from her bright, pale blue eyes. So presented, she was unremarkable and completely forgettable. And as she opened her mouth to greet Charlotte, Maisie remembered Andrew Dene’s remark about Rosamund Thorpe: “It was as if coming here . . . was a sort of self-flagellation.”

Maisie rose from her chair. “Good morning, Miss Waite.” She held out her hand, quickly trying to take the measure of her subject in the mood and emotions revealed by her stance. “I am so pleased that you agreed to see me,” Maisie assured the still figure before her.

Charlotte Waite seemed to be frozen to the spot. Only her eyes gave away a certain dislike of Maisie, based in all likelihood upon her hostility toward the person whom she represented.

“Let’s sit down,” offered Maisie.

Charlotte moved silently toward the other wing chair set opposite, smoothed the back of her skirt and was seated, her knees together with her legs slanted to one side, as she had been taught at her finishing school in Switzerland.

Maisie cleared her throat. “Charlotte, your father is very worried about you.”

Charlotte looked up, then shrugged, giving the impression of a spoiled girl rather than a grown woman.

Maisie persisted. “I realize that there may be some miscommunication between yourself and your father. Please help me to understand what has come between you. Perhaps I can be of service in some way.”

Charlotte Waite appeared to consider the question. Eventually she spoke in a voice that seemed to Maisie very much like her father’s. It was a strong voice, a voice that didn’t belong in the gray-clad, slender, almost frail body.

“Miss Dobbs, I appreciate your efforts. However, Joseph Waite wants only to have what he considers his property collected nicely together with all the rest of his possessions. I am exercising my choice to belong not to him but to myself.”

“I understand your position, Miss Waite. But surely this cannot be attained by flight?” Maisie stole a glance at Dame Constance through the grille.

“I have tried to speak to my father. I have lived in his house for a long time. He wants me to be dependent upon him for my every thought, for me to remain in his sight, under his control.”

“And what is the reason, in your estimation, for such behavior?”

Maisie knew she must suspend all judgment. But she had begun to dislike and mistrust Charlotte Waite and her rationalizations. Had her earlier feeling of pity for Joseph Waite biased her?

“Well, you’re certainly different from the last investigator he sent after me.”

“Indeed. But my question remains.”

Charlotte Waite took a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. “I’ve tried, Miss Dobbs, all my life, to make up for the fact that I am not my brother. I am not Joseph the Second. All the things I was good at were so different from all the things that he was good at, and he excelled at being my father’s favorite.” Charlotte Waite blurted out her words.

Maisie suspected that she had never confided her true thoughts before. “And what were your feelings toward your brother, Miss Waite?”

Charlotte Waite began to cry.

“Speak to me, Charlotte.” Maisie deliberately addressed her by her first name.

“I loved Joe. I adored him and looked up to him. He was always there, always. He protected me, but . . .”

“Yes?”

“I was torn, too.”

“Torn?”

“Yes, I . . . I was sort of . . . envious of him, especially as I grew older. I wondered why he was the favorite and not me. He could work for my father, while I was treated as if I didn’t have a brain at all. I was pushed to one side and ignored.”

Maisie was silent. How fortunate, by contrast, she had been in her growing up and in her opportunities, though Charlotte was a rich man’s daughter. How very lucky she had been. She took a deep breath. Maisie wanted to move on, to the day that Charlotte left her father’s house. She must balance her undertaking to bring back Joseph Waite’s daughter to him with her need to solve the murders of three women. The other members of Charlotte’s coterie.

“Miss Waite. Charlotte, if I may. Perhaps you could explain to me the connection between the feelings you describe, and what happened on the day you left your father’s house.”

Charlotte sniffed, and dabbed at her nose. Maisie watched her carefully, mistrusting the volatility of the other woman’s emotional state.
She’s on her guard again
.

“Frankly, I was fed up with being in my father’s house. I had wanted to leave for years, but he wouldn’t support me unless I remained under his roof.”

Maisie bristled at Charlotte’s words of entitlement.
Remain dispassionate.
Maurice’s teaching echoed in her mind. This case was challenging Maisie at every turn.

“Support you, Miss Waite?”

“Well, it would never do, would it? The daughter of Joseph Waite living alone and working.”

“Hmmm. Yes,” said Maisie, in a manner she hoped would encourage Charlotte to continue. She could feel Dame Constance watching her now, and suspected that she had intuited her thoughts and understood her dilemma.

“Anyway, life had become difficult. Breakfast was the last straw.”

“Did you have an argument with your father?”

“No, we didn’t say a word to each other, except ‘Good morning.’ Perhaps it would have been better if we’d argued. At least it would have meant he noticed me.”

“Go on, Charlotte.”

Charlotte breathed in deeply. “I sat down, opened the newspaper and read that an old friend had . . .”

“Been murdered.”

“How did you know?”

“It’s my job, Miss Waite.”

“You knew that I had been upset by reading of Philippa’s death?”

“I suspected it. But why did you leave your father’s home? What did you fear?”

Charlotte swallowed. “I hadn’t actually seen her for a long time, not since the war. If I had told my father about her death, he would have thought my distress unwarranted.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

She’s lying,
thought Maisie, who continued to press her subject, as far as she dare. “Was there another reason for your departure? You said that relations between you and your father had been troublesome for a while.”

“All my life!” Charlotte was vehement.

“Yes, I realize that. It must have been very difficult for you. But you seemed to suggest that relations with your father had been more difficult than usual.”

Charlotte stared at Maisie, as if trying to guess how much she already knew, then relented. “Another friend had died several weeks earlier. She . . . had taken her own life. We hadn’t been in touch since the war either, and I only knew because I read about it in the obituary column of
The Times
. In fact, I didn’t know at first that she’d . . . done it herself. I found out later when I telephoned the family to offer my condolences.”

“I see. And your father?”

“Wouldn’t let me attend the memorial service. Forbade it. Of course, she didn’t have a funeral, not a proper one, because the church doesn’t permit funerals for suicides.”

“And why do you think he forbade you to attend?”

“Oh, probably because I had known her so long ago, and I . . . I get upset.”

“Is there anything else, Charlotte? Any other reason?”

“No.”

Too quick. Too quick to answer.

“How did you first become acquainted with these two friends, Philippa and . . . ?”

“Rosamund.” Charlotte picked at a hangnail. “We knew each other ages ago, first at school, then during the war,” she replied, dismissively.

Her manner was not lost on Maisie, who pushed for a more concrete answer.

“What did you do during the war, together?”

“I can’t remember now. It was so long ago.”

Maisie watched as Charlotte Waite rubbed her hands together, in an effort to disguise their shaking.

“So, your father disliked two of your friends. And what did he think of Lydia Fisher.”

Charlotte jumped up from her chair. “How do you know Lydia? Oh, my God, you knew all the time, didn’t you?”

“Sit down, Miss Waite. Take a deep breath and be calm. I am not here to antagonize you or to harm you. I am simply searching for the truth.” Maisie turned briefly to the grille and saw Dame Constance raise an eyebrow.
I’m on shaky ground, but she’ll let me press on. For now.

Charlotte took a seat once again.

“What’s Lydia got to do with this?”

“You won’t have seen the papers, Charlotte, but Lydia Fisher is dead.”

“Oh, no!
No!
” It seemed to be an outcry of genuine surprise.

“And her husband, Magnus, has been arrested for the murders of both Philippa and Lydia.”

“Magnus?”

“You seem surprised.”

Charlotte Waite’s throat muscles were taut. “But he hadn’t seen Rosamund since school!”

“Rosamund? I thought she took her own life?”

Charlotte hid her face in her hands. Dame Constance cleared her throat, but Maisie tried for one last answer.

“Charlotte!” The tone of Maisie’s voice made her look up. Tears were running down her face. “Charlotte, tell me—why was a white feather left close to each of the victims?”

Charlotte Waite broke down completely.

“Stop! This must stop now!” said Dame Constance, her voice raised. The door to the sitting room opened, and two novices helped Charlotte from the room.

Maisie closed her eyes and breathed deeply to steady her heartbeat.

“So, that is how you work, Maisie Dobbs?”

“When I have to. Yes, it is, Dame Constance.”

Dame Constance tapped the desk in front of her and thought for a moment. Then she surprised Maisie.

“She’ll get over this interlude,” she sighed. “And it is evident even to me that she is withholding information. That, however, is her prerogative.”

“But—”

“No buts, Maisie. Your questioning was not what I had expected.”

“Perhaps I could have been kinder.”

“Yes, perhaps you could.” Dame Constance was thoughtful. “However, you might have rendered me a service, not that it excuses your manner with Charlotte.” She sighed again and explained. “To rebuild a relationship means first confession, which is best spoken aloud to one who hears. There is a confession to be spoken here and you managed to lead her to the edge of the fire, though Charlotte is clearly afraid of the heat.”

“That’s one way of putting it, Dame Constance.” Maisie thought for a minute. “Look, I know I pushed rather hard, but three women have been murdered, and an innocent man has been arrested. And Charlotte. . . .”

“Holds the key.”

“Yes.”

“I will advise her to speak with you again, but not before she has recovered. Maisie, I must have your word that you will not conduct your next interview in such a hostile manner. I remain deeply disappointed in you.”

“Dame Constance, I would be most grateful if you would urge Miss Waite to speak to me again. I give my word that I will be more considerate of Miss Waite’s sensibility when we meet. But . . . time is of the essence.”

Dame Constance nodded, and when the sliding door behind the grille closed, Maisie stood to leave.

A postulant entered the room with Maisie’s dry mackintosh, hat, and gloves, which she donned before returning to the MG. As the engine stuttered into life, Maisie hit the steering wheel with her hand. “Damn!” she said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

M
aisie was already at her desk when Billy arrived on Friday morning. Much work had to be completed on several cases, and two potential new clients who had come to the office during her absence had to be discussed.

“You’ve been working long hours, Billy.”

“Takes my mind off it.”

“Leg been bad this week?”

“Just nags away at me all the time now. And I’ve bin good, Miss. On the straight and narrow.”

Billy’s eyes seemed to be framed with circles as dark as her own. If only he would go to Chelstone soon.

“Have you given thought to my proposal?”

“Well, Doreen and me ’ave talked about it and all. Of course we’re worried about the money.”

“I’ve given you my assurance, Billy.”

“I know, I know, Miss. But, I feel sort of, oh, I dunno. . . .”

“Vulnerable?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Billy, that’s to be expected. I cannot tell you how much your help with my father means to me. Having someone I trust to be with him, and to assist with the horses—he’ll make himself ill worrying about them otherwise. And I know your leg bothers you, so one of the farmworkers will take on the really heavy work. Dad’s doing very well. He’ll be out of the wheelchair by the time he comes back to Chelstone, and we’ll set up a bed downstairs at the cottage. You won’t have to do any lifting.”