Birds of a Feather (42 page)

Authors: Jacqueline Winspear

T
he red brick of Camden Abbey seemed almost aflame against a seldom-seen blue sky that graced the Romney Marshes, but a chill breeze whipped across the flat land to remind all who came that this was pasture reclaimed from the sea. Once again Maisie was led to the visitor’s sitting room where, instead of tea, a small glass flagon had been placed on a tray with some milky white cheddar and warm bread. Dame Constance was waiting for her, smiling through the grille as she entered.

“Good afternoon, Maisie. It’s lunchtime, so I thought a little of our blackberry wine with homemade bread and cheese might go down well.”

Maisie sat down opposite. “I don’t know about wine, not when I have to get behind the wheel again soon. I think I should beware of your Camden Abbey brews.”

“In my day, Maisie—”

Maisie raised a hand. “Dame Constance, I confess I wonder how they ever let you in, what with the things you did in your day.”

The nun laughed. “Now you know the secret of the cloister, Maisie, we only take people who know the world. Now then, tell me how you are. We are not so isolated that we know nothing of the news here, you know. I understand that your investigations met with success.”

Maisie reached toward the flagon and poured a small measure of translucent deep red wine. “I find the word ‘success’ difficult to apply to this case, Dame Constance. Yes, the murderer has been brought to justice, but many questions linger.”

Dame Constance nodded. “People assume that we have a head start on wisdom in a place such as this, where women gather in a life of contemplation, a life of prayer. But it isn’t quite like that. Wisdom comes when we acknowledge what we can never know.”

Maisie sipped her wine.

“I have come to wonder, Maisie, if our work really
is
so different. We are both concerned with questions, are we not? Investigation is part of both our lives, and we are witnesses to confession.”

“When you put it like that, Dame Constance—”

“We both have to avoid making personal judgments and we are both faced with the challenge of doing and saying what is right when the burden of truth has been placed on our shoulders.”

“My job is to look hard for the clues that evade me.”

“And you have learned the lesson, no doubt, that while looking hard for clues in your work, you may be blind to the unanswered questions in your own life. Or you may be providing yourself with a convenient distraction from them.”

Maisie smiled in acknowledgment as she sipped again from the glass.

S
tratton was restrained as usual during their long-postponed lunch at Bertorelli’s. He did not repeat his regret at failing to listen to her theory, though they could not help but discuss the case.

“Has Mrs. Willis told you yet where she obtained the morphine?” asked Maisie.

Stratton rested his right forearm on the table and ran a finger around the rim of his water glass. “Various sources. There was an attempt to procure some from the hospital in Richmond, but she was disturbed by a nurse just as she was entering the nurses’ office. Of course they couldn’t prove anything, but they became rather more vigilant regarding the security of medicines. Some of her supply came from—you will never believe this—the belongings of a maiden aunt who had passed away earlier this year. Mrs. Willis found several of those tins of morphine in phials that were once so fashionable among the ladies, and easily purchased. Though old, the substance had lost none of its strength. She bought some from a chemist, and also used the deceased Mr. Thorpe’s supply. Morphine can take a long time to do its work, but she was lucky—if you can call it that—in rendering her victims helpless enough to hear what she had to say before administering a fatal dose.”

“And the bayonet.”

“Street market.”

Maisie shook her head.

They were quiet, and for a time Maisie wondered whether Stratton might talk about his son, but when he spoke again it was of a business matter, an offer that rather surprised her.

“Miss Dobbs. You must have read the news, in the papers about two weeks ago, that there’s a new Staff Officer in charge of the Women’s Section at the Yard.”

“Yes, of course. Dorothy Peto.”

“Yes. Well, she’s suggesting all sorts of changes, including women being posted to the Criminal Investigation Department. I was wondering if you might be interested. You know, I could put in a word—”

Maisie held up a hand. “Oh no, Inspector. Thank you all the same, but I prefer to work alone, with only Mr. Beale to assist me.”

Stratton smiled. “Just as I thought.”

Conversation idled as lunch came to a close, though Stratton’s demeanor had changed, becoming warmer.

“I wonder,” he said, “If you would care to join me for supper, perhaps. I was thinking of next Wednesday evening, or Thursday.”

Very clever, thought Maisie. Wednesday didn’t have the significance of Friday, not when it came to a man asking a woman out to dine. “Thank you for the invitation, but I . . . I’ll let you know. My assistant returns to work next week. He’s been taking time for a special course of therapy to ease a troublesome war wound. I have much to do before he comes back.”

Stratton rallied quickly. “Then may I telephone you on Tuesday afternoon?”

“Of course. I’ll expect to hear from you, then.”

Maisie heard the telephone in her office ringing even before she opened the front door, and hurried up the stairs before the caller lost patience.

“Fitzroy five—”

“Is that Miss Maisie Dobbs?”

“Speaking.”

“Andrew Dene here.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Dene.”

“So glad to have reached you. I’ll be up in London early next week. That meeting at St. Thomas’s? It was postponed, but now it’s on again. Look, I wonder, would you care to have supper with me, say, Wednesday or Thursday?”

Maisie quickly ruffled some papers on her desk. “Let me see . . . I’m really quite busy at the moment. Could you give me a ring on, oh, Tuesday afternoon?”

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs. I’ll telephone you on Tuesday. Until then.”

“Yes, until then.”

She replaced the receiver.

M
aisie stood by the window on Wednesday morning waiting for Billy Beale to return to work. She rubbed the back of her neck and paced to the mirror, checked her appearance for the one hundredth time since her visit to Bond Street the previous afternoon. Time for a change. She thought of Simon. Yes, though she would continue to visit, probably forever, it was time to move on, to set her cap for . . . whatever fate might bring her way.

Turning to the window again, she saw Billy round the corner, walking briskly.
Yes
. With a spring in his step and barely any sign of a limp, Billy Beale made his way across Fitzroy Square, tipping his cap at a woman walking with her children, and—she was sure of this— whistling as he walked.
Yes.
He was the old Billy again.
Good
. Just before he reached the front door, Billy stopped in front of a flight of pigeons that had gathered to pick at the flagstones. He shook his head, then carefully made his way around the birds before running up the steps and polishing the brass nameplate with the underside of his sleeve before entering.

Maisie listened. The door closed with a loud thump and Billy whistled his way up the stairs. She rubbed at her neck again as the door swung open.

“Mornin’ Miss, and ain’t it a lovely—blimey!”

“Good morning, Billy. It’s good to have you back, even though you’ve brought some rich language with you.”

“You’ve . . . you’ve changed.”

“Thank you for being so observant, Billy. That’s what you’re paid for.” Maisie touched her hair.

“I mean, Miss, well, it’s a bit of a shock, innit? But it suits you, really it does.”

Maisie looked at him anxiously. “Are you sure? You’re not just saying that, are you, Billy?”

“No, Miss. Even though my Dad always said that a woman’s ’air is ’er crownin’ glory. It suits you, makes you seem more . . . sort of modern.”

Maisie walked to the mirror again, still surprised to see her reflection, with her hair cut into a sharp bob.

“I just couldn’t stand all that hair any more, especially the bits that always flew out at the sides. I wanted a change.”

Billy hung his coat on the hook at the back of the door and turned back to Maisie. “Now all you need is somewhere nice to go.”

“Well, I
am
going out for supper tonight.”

“Supper?” said Billy with a mischievous grin. “Now, Miss, I thought you said you didn’t dine out in the evenings because supper meant something more than lunch.”

Maisie laughed. “I changed my mind.”

“I ’spect it’s with Dr. Dene. ’e’s up here this week for ’is meetins, ain’t ’e?”

“Yes, I believe he is.”

“Or is it the Detective Inspector?”

“Now then, Billy.”

“Go on, Miss, you can tell me.”

“No, Billy, I can’t. Let’s just say that it’s something for me to know and you to deduce. And talking of powers of deduction, I’ve just taken on an interesting new case.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

M
y friend and writing buddy, Holly Rose, was the first to read
Birds of a Feather
and I am ever-grateful for her support, honesty, insight and enthusiasm. My agent, Amy Rennert is a powerful blend of friend, mentor and coach—and is the best. Thanks must also go to my editor Laura Hruska and to everyone at Soho Press—a terrific publishing team.

I am indebted to my Cheef Resurcher (who knows who he is) for the hours spent among dusty old copies of
The Times
and for his invaluable counsel on the history of the inner workings of “The Yard.” Any wide turns with fact and procedure may be attributed to the author who will gladly repay his hard work with a few bottles of the peaty stuff.

My parents, Albert and Joyce Winspear, have once again been wonderful resources regarding “old London” and have also entertained me with their renditions of Cockney ballads via long-distance ’phone calls.

Kenneth Leach, to whom this book is dedicated, was the foundation-stone of my education. It was in his classroom, when I was ten, that I first heard the Great War story that inspired
Birds of a Feather.
He was a great teacher and a very dear person.

To my husband, John Morell: Thank you for being my numero uno fan—and for scouring used bookstores for even more sources for me to draw upon in my quest to bring color and depth to the life of Maisie Dobbs.

Every writer should have a dog and I have Sally, my constant companion while I’m working, along with her friend, Delderfield, a completely idle cat.

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