Birds of a Feather (33 page)

“Be like two old peg legs together, won’t we?”

“Oh, come on now, you’ll see—you’ll come back with all fires blazing. I’ve heard that Maurice’s friend, Gideon Brown, is an amazing man and has worked wonders with wounded and injured people. Plus you’ll be outdoors, in the fresh air. . . .”

“And well away from temptation, eh, Miss?”

Maisie sighed. “Yes, Billy. That’s another thing.”

Billy nodded. “Awright, then. Awright, I’ll go, but not until this business with Miss Waite and them women is closed. I can’t leave work ’alf done.”

“Right you are, Billy.” Maisie acquiesced. “And is there anything else?”

Billy looked at Maisie in earnest. “Can Doreen and the nippers come down?”

“Of course they can. It isn’t prison, you know. In fact, if she wants, I think Doreen could get work from Lady Rowan.”

“Oh, she’d like that.”

“Yes, apparently Lady Rowan has been so preoccupied with the mare and foal, that she is ‘behind’—as she puts it—with preparing for her return to London. She wants to have several gowns altered rather than buy new ones, so I told her about Doreen.”

“You should get a job down the labor exchange, Miss. You’d ’ave everyone in work and off them lines in next to no time.”

Maisie laughed. “Come on, let’s get cracking. I want to see where we are with everything that’s happened while I’ve been away. We should leave here by ten. And we’ll continue this afternoon as soon as we’re back. Also, I’ll need to speak to Detective Inspector Stratton later today.”

“T’ see whether Fisher has spilled the beans?”

“Yes, in a way. Though I think the only beans Fisher has to spill concern his wife’s drinking and his gambling debts. But the newspapers are having a field day with him.”

“All over him like a rash, Miss. Feel a bit sorry for him, I do.”

“You should. I would bet my business on his innocence.”

Quite deliberately, Maisie had not discussed her latest news on the Waite case in detail with Billy. Though she wanted to work on the case map as an artist would an unfinished canvas, she also knew the value of letting facts, thoughts, observations and feelings simmer. In the hours of driving that followed her meeting with Charlotte Waite, Maisie had concluded that the only person who was at risk now was Charlotte. A plan had begun to form in Maisie’s mind. Execution of that plan would depend upon Charlotte.

At ten o’clock on the dot, just as they were about to leave for the appointment with Joseph Waite, the telephone rang.

“Always the way, innit?”

“You can say that again.” Maisie reached for the receiver and gave the number.

“May I speak to Miss Maisie Dobbs?”

“Speaking.”

“Ah, Miss Dobbs. My name is Reverend Sneath, from the village of Lower Camden. I have an important message for you from Dame Constance at Camden Abbey. I visited her earlier today, and she asked me to telephone you as a matter of some urgency as soon as I returned to the vicarage.”

“What is the message, Reverend Sneath?” Maisie was filled with dread. Seeing her complexion change, Billy moved closer to the desk.

“I’ll read it out to you, so I don’t miss a thing.”

Maisie bit her lip as she listened to the rustle of paper, the message being unfolded. The reverend cleared his throat. “Dear Maisie. Miss Waite has left Camden Abbey. She went to her cell immediately after your meeting with her yesterday, and did not join us for our meals or for our devotions, as is her practice. I gave instructions for a food tray to be left for her, and when it was discovered untouched this morning we searched the abbey to no avail. I fear that yesterday’s distressing events have weighed heavily on her. I have not informed the authorities as Miss Waite is not a member of the community. However, I am concerned for her well-being. Do all that you can to find her, Maisie. I need not remind you that her safety is your responsibility. We will hold you and Miss Waite in our prayers.”

“Oh God.” Maisie slumped into her chair.

“Yes, quite.”

“Thank you. Reverend Sneath. Please destroy the message. And would you be so kind as to get word to Dame Constance that I will be in touch as soon as I have located Miss Waite.”

“Of course. Good day to you, Miss Dobbs.” The line clicked.

“She’s run away again, Billy.” Maisie’s hand was still on the receiver, as if willing the telephone to ring with news of Charlotte.

“Oh blimey! Now what’re we goin’ t’ tell ol’ Waite?”

“Nothing. I don’t want to alarm Waite until we’ve made inquiries. For now we’ll carry on as if we know where she is. But we have to find her—and pretty sharpish. Come on, let’s get going. We can talk about it in the car.”

Maisie and Billy exchanged ideas throughout the journey to Dulwich, until Maisie put a stop to their speculation. “Let’s give this problem some air. Now we’ve speculated back and forth, let’s allow some room for inspiration.”

“Awright, Miss. Let the ideas come to us instead of chasing them.”

“Exactly.” Maisie spoke as forcefully as she could but was unable to escape the dread that pulled at her stomach. Where was Charlotte Waite now?

Once again, Maisie was required to park “nose out” at the Waite mansion and, once again, after being most cordially greeted by Harris, the calm was broken by the entrance of Miss Arthur, Joseph Waite’s secretary, clutching her files.

“Oh, Miss Dobbs, Miss Dobbs, Miss Dobbs. I tried to telephone you, but your line was engaged, and then when I telephoned a second time, there was no answer. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Miss Arthur reminded Maisie of a startled hen, with her arms flapping. Maisie raised her hand, as if to smooth the other woman’s ruffled feathers.

“What is wrong, Miss Arthur?”

“It’s Mr. Waite.” Miss Arthur ushered Maisie and Billy into her wood-paneled office neighboring the entrance hall. “Of course, he sends apologies, many apologies, but he has been . . . called away urgently . . . on a business matter.”

Miss Arthur was not a practiced liar, Maisie noted. She frowned. “I see.”

“I tried to reach you, but I expect you had already left,” the flustered secretary continued.

“Not to worry, Miss Arthur. Of course I have much to report to him.”

“Yes, yes, he expected that. He asked me to attend immediately to any interim bills you may wish to submit. For your services.”

“That is very kind.” Maisie turned to Billy, who handed her a brown envelope, which she in turn handed to Miss Arthur. “Perhaps I can make an appointment for next week?”

“Indeed, Miss Dobbs.” Miss Arthur stepped quickly to the other side of her desk, reached into a drawer and pulled out a checkbook and ledger. She glanced briefly at the bill, and commenced writing a check while still speaking to Maisie. “In fact Mr. Waite said to let you know that he’s reviewed your previous conversations and he’s satisfied with your progress. He trusts that you will be bringing Miss Waite back to the house in the fullness of time.”

“A bit of an about-turn, Miss Arthur?” Maisie was suspicious of the fact that both Charlotte
and
her father were eluding further confrontation by her. A coincidence? Or by design?

Miss Arthur did not respond as she continued to sign the check in her small, rounded hand. She slipped the check into an envelope that she passed to Maisie; then she looked down to complete the ledger entry before reaching for a substantial desk diary. “Let me look at his diary. How about next Wednesday? At noon?”

Maisie nodded at Billy, who noted the time on an index card.

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to inform Mr. Waite that I expect to be in a position to make arrangements for Miss Waite’s return very soon.”

“I understand, Miss Dobbs. We are all very anxious to see her back home.”

“Yes.” Maisie looked sharply at Miss Arthur, who seemed intent on shuffling the papers on her desk. She had always thought that Miss Arthur, along with the other members of Joseph Waite’s household, dreaded Charlotte’s return. What was the secretary keeping from her? Was Charlotte already in the house? Had Waite located his daughter and dragged her home? But, if so, why conceal her whereabouts from Maisie?

“I’ll summon Harris to show you out.”

“Thank you, Miss Arthur.”

Maisie and Billy were almost at the door when Maisie turned to the butler. “Is Mrs. Willis available? I just want to see her for a moment.”

“She’s taken an afternoon off, Miss. Mind you, she may still be in her quarters. Shall I summon her?”

“Oh no, I’ll quickly knock on her door, if that’s all right. I saw her at the bus stop in Richmond recently, and wanted to offer her the occasional lift.” Maisie began to move as she spoke, which she knew would subtly pressure the butler into acquiescing.

“Of course, M’um. Follow me.”

“Billy, wait for me in the car, won’t you?”

Billy hid his surprise. “Right you are, Miss.”

Maisie was escorted along a corridor that led first to a staircase giving access to the lower floor, then, once downstairs, continued to the side of the house. The property’s design, though intended to give the impression of an older architectural style, was actually modern. The staircase leading to the kitchens was wide and airy, the apartments for senior staff spacious. This house had been designed to give owner and servants alike a measure of comfort unknown in times past.

Harris knocked on an eggshell-gloss-painted door. “Mrs. Willis? Visitor for you.”

Maisie could hear movement inside; then the door opened to reveal the housekeeper, who was patting the sides of her head to calm any stray locks of hair. She wore a light amethyst woolen day dress, with a narrow white collar and cuffs, and was still kneading the leather of one of her black shoes with her heel in an attempt to get it on her foot without having to stoop in front of her visitor.

“Oh, this is a surprise.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Willis.” Maisie turned to Harris. “Thank you for showing me the way.” He bowed and left, as Maisie turned again to Mrs. Willis.

“May I come in?”

“Of course, of course. I am sorry. I don’t get visitors, so do pardon me not being ready to receive a guest.” Mrs. Willis beckoned Maisie to follow her into the immaculate sitting room. A small settee and matching armchair were positioned to face the fireplace and a gate-leg table, one flap folded to fit neatly into the limited space, was placed near the wall, the highly polished wood reflecting a vase full of daffodils that stood on a lace doily. A series of photographs sat on the sideboard by the window, which offered a pleasing view to the gardens at the side of the house.

“May I offer you refreshment, Miss Dobbs?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Willis.”

“Do sit down. I expect you’ve come to make arrangements for Miss Waite coming home.”

“Actually, Mrs. Willis, I came to see you.”

The woman looked across at Maisie, her eyes wide. “Me, Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes. I hope this isn’t a cheek, but I saw you in Richmond last time I visited a dear friend. He’s being cared for in the same home as your son.”

“Oh, I am sorry, Miss Dobbs. Was he your sweetheart?”

Maisie was a little surprised by the forthright question. But such an observation might be expected, as there were many women of Maisie’s age who had remained spinsters, their loved ones lost to war. “Well, yes. Yes, he was, but it was a long time ago, now.”

“Hard to forget though, isn’t it?” Mrs. Willis sat opposite Maisie.

Maisie cleared her throat. “Yes, sometimes. But look, Mrs. Willis, I just wanted to say that if I can give you a lift, you must let me know.”

“That’s very kind of you, but—”

“I don’t go there every week, but I can telephone first to see if you would like a lift when I am planning to visit, if you like.”

“Well, Miss, I can’t put you to any trouble. Really I can’t.”

“It’s no trouble at all. And if you should see my motor car outside when you’re visiting, do wait for me to bring you home.”

“All right, Miss Dobbs. I’ll do that.” The housekeeper smiled at Maisie.

She won’t ask for help. Ever, thought Maisie.

Suddenly, a clatter at the window caused Maisie to gasp. Mrs. Willis stood. “Here they come, after their lunch!”

“What on earth is that noise? It frightened the life out of me.”

“It’s just the doves, Miss Dobbs. Always after a bit extra, always. It’s lunchtime; they know who’s a soft touch and where they can get a tidbit or two.” The housekeeper took the lid off a brown-striped earthenware biscuit barrel set on the mantelpiece, selected a biscuit, and walked to the window. Maisie followed, and watched as she leaned over the sideboard and lifted the sash window to reveal a dozen or more doves sitting on the windowsill.

“There you are, you little beggars. Eat up, because that’s all you’re getting today!” Mrs. Willis crumbled the biscuit onto the windowsill.

Maisie laughed to see the birds jostle for position, pushing and shoving in an effort to get more.

“You watch, they’ll try upstairs next.”

“Why, who else feeds them?”

“Oh. Mr. Waite. He’s a soft one, if ever there was. He pays all the bills for my son’s care, you know. His bark is far worse than his bite, as they say.”

As if drawn by the unheard signal of a mystical piper, the doves swept up and away from the windowsill, taking to the air in a cloud of wings. Maisie watched as they flew up, while Mrs. Willis closed the window very slowly. And for a moment it seemed to Maisie as if time were faltering yet still moving forward, for in their wake the doves discarded dozens and dozens of tiny, perfect white feathers, each one zigzagging down, borne on a light breeze, until it fell onto the freshly cut lawn, or fluttered against the windowpane like snow.

“Oh dear, are you one of those people who doesn’t like birds?” asked Mrs. Willis.

“No, not at all.” Maisie turned back into the room, and regained her composure. “Mind you, my assistant doesn’t care for them.”

“Why ever not? They’re so beautiful.”

“Yes, they are, aren’t they? I don’t know why he doesn’t like them. I must make a point of asking him.” Maisie looked at her watch. “I really should be going now, Mrs. Willis. Don’t forget to ask if you need a lift.”