Birds of a Feather (35 page)

Though their conversation was sometimes strained, Maisie looked forward to her meeting with Detective Inspector Stratton. She knew that he admired her and was taking tentative steps to further their acquaintance. But how prudent would it be to agree to such an outing? Would her work and her reputation be put at risk by a closer friendship?

Stratton stood outside the cafeteria where Maisie joined him after walking down Tottenham Court Road from Fitzroy Square. He lifted his hat and opened the door for Maisie.

“There’s a seat over there. This place is definitely more
caff
than
café
, but it’s quick. Tea, toast, and jam?”

“Lovely, Inspector Stratton.” It was at that point, that Maisie realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Maisie sat on a bench by a wall decorated with floral wallpaper that was now quite faded and stained in places. She unbuttoned her jacket and looked out of the window while she waited for Stratton, who was at the counter placing cups of tea and a plate of toast and jam on a tray. She craned her neck to watch customers going in and out of Joseph Waite’s double-fronted grocery shop across the road.
And they say there’s no money about!

“Here we are.” Stratton set the tray down on the table, pulled out the chair opposite Maisie, and sat down. “You could stand a spoon up in that tea. They make it strong here.”

“Stewed tea, fresh from the urn—nothing like it, Inspector. It’s what kept us going over in France.”

“Yes, and there’s been many a time when a flask of that stuff has sustained me when I’ve had to work all night, I can tell you. Let’s get down to business. I didn’t come here to discuss the tea. What have you come across, Miss Dobbs? I know you did some snooping around when you found Lydia Fisher’s body.”

“Lydia was a friend of Charlotte Waite. I had been asked by Joseph Waite to locate his daughter, who had left her father’s home temporarily. He is my client.” Maisie reached for a triangular wedge of toast. She was ravenous and quickly took a bite, then dabbed at the sides of her mouth with a handkerchief. This was not the kind of establishment where table napkins were supplied.

Stratton raised an eyebrow. “Not much to get your teeth into, a missing debutante, if you don’t mind me saying so, Miss. Dobbs.” Stratton reached for a slice of toast.

“But enough to pay for my own office, an assistant, and a nippy little motor car, Inspector,” replied Maisie, her eyes flashing.

Stratton smiled. “I deserved that one, didn’t I?”

Maisie inclined her head.

“So, let’s get down to brass tacks. What have you got to tell me?”

“Lydia Fisher and Philippa Sedgewick were friends.”

“I know that!”

“As was Rosamund Thorpe, of Hastings.”

“Who is?”

“Dead. She is thought to have committed suicide some weeks before Mrs. Sedgewick was murdered.”

“And this has . . . what to do with your investigation or our murder inquiry?”

“They were all friends once, the three dead women and Charlotte Waite. A coterie, if you like.”

“So?”

Maisie appraised Stratton before speaking again.
He’s being deliberately obtuse.

“Detective Inspector Stratton, people who knew Rosamund Thorpe cannot believe she took her own life. Also, the four former friends seemed to have made a point of avoiding one another. I think they were kept apart by shame. During the war, I believe they distributed white feathers to men who were not in uniform.”

“Oh, those terrible women!”

“And . . .” Maisie halted. Shall I tell him about the feathers I found? Will I be mocked? “And . . . I believe that Magnus Fisher did not kill his wife or Philippa Sedgewick. The person you seek is someone—”

“We have our man!”

“Inspector, why are you so . . . so . . . quick to send Fisher down?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“The public wants a murderer behind bars, and you—you and Caldwell—have decided to give them one.”

Stratton sighed. “And we are right. It’s an open-and-shut case.”

Maisie clenched her fists in frustration. “And you can’t stand a man who abandoned his wife, and whom you believe deprived a loving husband of his.”

“Look here, Miss Dobbs, leave this sort of work to the professionals. I know you’ve had some luck in the past. You’ve helped us before when you worked for a man of some stature, but . . . do not interfere!” Stratton stood up. “I hope we can meet again under less strained circumstances.”

As much as she wanted to have a last word, Maisie knew that she must not allow them to part with rancor. “Yes, indeed, Inspector. I am sorry if I have offended you. However, do expect to hear from me again soon.”

Stratton left the cafeteria, as Maisie took her seat once again
. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have lost control. I could see by the way he moved, the way he sat and the manner in which he spoke, that he was obdurate. I’ve told the police as much as they would hear. Should I have mentioned the feathers? No, he would have laughed
.

Maisie gathered her belongings and followed Stratton out.

She was ready to turn the corner into Tottenham Court Road, when she stopped to look back at the blue and gold-fronted Waite’s International Stores. She changed direction and walked instead toward the entrance of Joseph Waite’s most prominently situated grocery store.

Once again, when Maisie entered the hubbub of the shop, she watched as assistants reached forward to point to a cheese and nod, or hold up a cut of meat for inspection. Dried fruits were weighed, biscuits counted, and all the time money passed back and forth and shop assistants constantly washed their hands. Maisie stood in the center of the floor, near the round table with a display of the latest foods imported from overseas. Yes, there was money about, despite long lines at soup kitchens in other parts of London.

Maisie watched the busyness of business in Joseph Waite’s domain.
Why have I come back? There is something here for me. What is it? What did I not see last time?
She looked up at the walls, at the intricate mosaics that must have cost a fortune. Then down at the polished wood floor and across at the boy whose job it was to walk back and forth with a broom, ensuring that Waite’s customers never noticed so much as a crumb underfoot.

No one paid attention to the young, well-dressed woman who stood without a shopping bag, making no move toward a counter, and displaying no intention to purchase. Both shop assistants and customers were too preoccupied with their tasks and errands to see her close her eyes and place her hand where she could feel the beating of her heart. Just for a second, just for fleeting moment, Maisie gave herself over to her inner guidance in this most public place. Then, as if responding to a command that only she could hear, she opened her eyes and looked up at the place above the door, at the tiled memorial to the employees of Waite’s International Stores. She allowed her eyes to rest on the tile dedicated to Waite’s son, Joseph, beloved heir of a self-made man. A man known to be as hard as rock but at times also a man of compassion. A man of extremes.
Don’t stop,
said a voice in her head. And Maisie obeyed. She read each name, starting from the beginning: Avery . . . Denman . . . Farnwell . . . Marchant . . . Nicholls . . . Peters . . . so many, oh, so
many
. . . Richards, Roberts . . . Simms, Simpson . . . Timmins . . . Unsworth . . . every letter in the alphabet was represented as she silently mouthed the names, like a teacher reviewing the class register. Then Maisie stopped reading.
Ah
. She closed her eyes.
Ah. Yes. Of course.

Opening her eyes again, Maisie looked at each food counter until she saw one of the older members of staff. “Excuse me. I wonder if you could help me?”

“Yes, Madam, Of course. The sausages are fresh made this morning, by our very own butchers. Personally trained by Mr. Waite, they are. These are the best sausages in London.”

“Oh, lovely, I’m sure. But could you tell me where I can find someone who worked for Waite’s during the war? Someone who might have known the boys up there?” Maisie pointed to the memorial.

“But, Miss, there’s names up there from all over. Mind you, old Mr. Jempson in the warehouse knew just about all of the London boys. Joined up together you know, as pals. Most of the boys who enlisted came from the warehouse; it’s where the apprentices start, and where the butchering is done before the carcasses go out to the shops. Waite’s delivers to its own shops with special ice-packed lorries, you know.”

“Could you tell me where the warehouse is?”

“Across the water. In Rotherhithe, the ‘Larder of London,’ where all the warehouses are. Let me get a piece of paper and write down the directions for you. It’s easy to find, close to St. Saviour’s Docks, Madam. Relative, are you?”

“A friend.”

“I see. Mr. Waite’s own son was down at the warehouse, before he went over there. Started him at the bottom, did Mr. Waite. Said he had to work his way up like anyone else.” The assistant left the counter and returned with a folded piece of paper, which she handed to Maisie. “There you are, Madam. Now then, what about some sausages for your supper?”

Maisie was about to decline, then thought otherwise. Smiling at the assistant, she gave her order. “Lovely. A pound, please.”

“Right you are.” And with a flourish copied directly from Joseph Waite, the assistant swept up a string of bulbous pork sausages, and laid them on the scale. The Beale family would eat well tonight.

“S
tratton any easier to talk to this afternoon, Miss?”

“I wish I could say yes, Billy. It started out well enough, then became rather difficult.”

“Funny, that. ’e always seemed such a reasonable bloke.”

Maisie took off her mackintosh, hat, and gloves, and laid her document case and a brown carrier bag on her desk. “It’ll settle down and we’ll all be talking again after this case is closed, Billy. Men in Stratton’s position can’t close too many doors, especially those leading to people they’ve consulted with in the past. No, there are two struggles going on there: One in the department and one inside Stratton. As long as we are
seen
to be doing our part, I’m not going to worry.” Maisie looked at her watch. “Oh, look at the time, Billy! It’s almost half past four. Let’s just go over some details on the Waite case and make plans for Monday. I’m driving down to Chelstone tomorrow morning first thing, and I must also visit my fath—”

Maisie was interrupted by the telephone.

“Fitzroy five —Miss Waite. Where are you. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” The line crackled.

“Miss Waite? Miss Waite you may be in danger. Tell me where you are.”

Silence.

“Miss Waite? Are you still there?”

“Yes, yes, I’m here.”

“Well, can you speak up a bit, please? This is a terrible line.”

“I’m in a telephone kiosk.” Charlotte’s voice was slightly louder.

“Why have you called me, Miss Waite?”

“I . . . I . . . need to speak to you.”

“About what?” Maisie held her breath as she pushed Charlotte just a little.

“There’s more to tell you. I didn’t tell you . . . everything.”

“Can you tell me now?”

Silence.

“Miss Waite?”

“I have to speak to you privately, in person.”

“Where are you? I’ll come right away.”

Maisie thought she heard Charlotte crying; then there was silence but for the crackling telephone line.

“Miss Waite? Are we still connected?”

“Oh, it’s no use. It’s no use—”

There was a click and the line was dead. Maisie replaced the receiver.

“Damn!”

Billy’s eyes widened. “What was all that about, eh, Miss?”

“Charlotte Waite. She said she wanted to talk to me, then hung up the receiver saying it was ‘no use.’”

“Lost ’er bottle, did she?”

“She certainly did. It was a bad line. She could have been anywhere. Mind you, there was noise in the background.” Maisie closed her eyes as if to hear the entire call again. “What was that sound?”

“D’you still want me to do all this?” Billy held up the list.

“Yes. She could have been in Paris for all I know. Or outside an hotel on the Edgeware Road. But at least we know she’s still alive. It’s getting late, but you can make a start, and then get on with it again tomorrow morning.”

“Right you are, Miss.”

“I’ll need to speak to Lady Rowan at Chelstone before I see my father, then I’ll come back to London to continue the search for Charlotte Waite.”

“How can ’er Ladyship help?”

Maisie turned to Billy. “She was involved in the suffrage movement before the war, and knows a lot about what different women’s associations did. I could use more color on the page.”

“I know, Miss.”

Maisie looked up at Billy, walked over to her desk, and sighed. “Billy, give it another half an hour or so and then get on your way. It’s been a long day—in fact, it’s been a long week, and you’ll have to put in quite a few hours tomorrow.”

“Aw, thanks, Miss. I want to see the nippers before they go to bed.”

“Oh, and Billy—here’s something for you.” Maisie held out the brown paper carrier bag.

“What’s all this, Miss?”

“A pound of Waite’s sausages. Best in London, they say.”

S
hortly after Billy began his evening journey back to Whitechapel, Maisie climbed into the MG, started the engine, and pulled out of Fitzroy Square. A telephone call had confirmed that Waite’s warehouse in Rotherhithe remained open until late in the evening, while lorries bound for the shops were packed with the next day’s deliveries. Mr. Jempson, the warehouse manager, was available and had kindly agreed to see Maisie as soon as she arrived.

Fog horns bellowed along the Thames as carriage drivers, motorists and barge captains alike made their way through the murky smog that once again began to shroud London. Maisie negotiated the MG along narrow roads that were almost lanes, byways that led from the docks to riverside warehouses. Following directions carefully, she eventually turned into a cobbled side street and drew up in front of a pair of open gates with a sign above in blue-and-gold lettering: WAITE’S INTERNA-TIONAL STORES. SOUTH-EASTERN WAREHOUSE. A guard in a blue-and-gold uniform waved from the gatehouse and came out to greet Maisie, a clipboard under his arm.