Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “Oh, no, no, my wages are better ’ere than they were round the corner with old Sharpie. I just—”

  “What, Billy?”

  “You’re sure you need me?”

  “Absolutely sure. Time and again you have proved that you are worth your weight in gold, which I would pay you if I could. If I have any criticism of your work, I will tell you.”

  Billy gave her a wary grin.

  “Is that all that’s bothering you, Billy?”

  “That’s all, Miss.”

  “Right then. Let’s see where we are with the Waite case.”

  The sound of mail being pushed through the letterbox was a signal to Billy to get up from his desk. “Back in a minute, better see if there’s anything for us.”

  Maisie frowned. She knew that even as he made his way downstairs, Billy was preparing to return to the room demonstrating the old Billy, the court jester with a heart of gold. It was Billy’s loyalty to her, and the link between him and Captain Simon Lynch, that had won him the job as her assistant—as well as his willingness to help her by working all hours on some of the more tedious surveillance tasks

  In 1917 Corporal William Beale had been brought into the casualty clearing station where Maisie was assisting Captain Simon Lynch, the army doctor she been introduced to by her friend Priscilla, while she was at Girton College. Simon had declared his love for her and proposed marriage, and now they were working alongside each other. Billy Beale never forgot the man who saved his leg—and his life. And he never forgot the young nurse who tended to his wounds, instantly recognizing her years later when Maisie Dobbs became a tenant at the Warren Street premises where he was caretaker. Both she and Simon had been wounded subsequently when the casualty clearing station came under heavy artillery fire. She had recovered; Simon had not.

  Maisie sat down at the table by the window, opened the file she had taken from her briefcase, and gestured for Billy to join her. He sat down, taking a plain lead pencil from the jam jar, and a large sheet of paper for them to diagram evidence details, thoughts, possibilities, and projections, a technique that they referred to as their “case map.”

  “First of all,” said Maisie, “Waite will receive our contract and terms”—she consulted the watch pinned to the breast pocket of her new burgundy wool suit, and continued—“in about fifteen minutes.”

  “And we know ’e’s got the money!” said Billy.

  “That we do. Let’s do three things this morning, then split up. I want to map what our impressions were: of the house, the four people we met, and of Charlotte’s room. We’ll also look at the items we found while we were there.”

  “And the grounds, Miss. Don’t forget all that ‘nose pointing out’ nonsense, and them lawns what look like they were clipped by a pair o’ nail scissors.”

  “Good. You’re right, mustn’t forget that welcome! Anyway, after we’ve made a start, you can set to work on Charlotte’s address book, just checking on who’s where, and that it’s all current.”

  “Yes, Miss. Just put some flesh on the bones, no need to knock on any doors yet. Where will you be going, Miss?”

  “I am going to a branch of Waite’s International Stores. I thought I’d go to the one on Oxford Street, close to Tottenham Court Road. It was his first shop in London, and it’s his most important branch, next to the one in Harrogate, of course. The main offices of Waite’s are above the premises. With a bit of luck, I’ll see the man in his element.”

  “Why do you think it’s called Waite’s International Stores, Miss?”

  “I looked up a file of Maurice’s, which expanded on the information noted on the index card. I was actually looking for anything that would add to the comment about the severing of contact, but there was nothing there, so I’ll have to speak to Maurice about it. Anyway, when he added fruits and vegetables, other dry goods, and more from abroad to his butchery business, he slipped ‘International’ in between ‘Waite’s’ and ‘Stores’ and never looked back.”

  “It must’ve been ’ard work for ’im, eh?”

  “Most certainly, and of course life wasn’t easy at home, either. You heard his little monologue yesterday.”

  “And who’s ’is wife?”

  “According to Maurice’s file, Charlotte’s mother was a music-hall singer and small-time actress from Bradford. He met her there at the opening of his shop. Apparently Waite’s shop openings were always big events. Charlotte was born just”—Maisie raised an eyebrow—“seven months after the marriage.”

  “Miss Arthur said that Mrs. Waite spends most of ’er time up in Leeds, at the ’ouse up there. And I made a note to check on ’er information that Charlotte is not with the mother, even though Miss Arthur said she’d already made sure of that.” Billy tapped at the points with his pencil.

  “Good. I got the impression that Charlotte and her mother weren’t close. What do you think, Billy?”

  Billy scratched the top of his ear where his hair was in need of a trim. “Well, what I thought was that Charlotte didn’t really fit in anywhere. There she was, living with that dad of ’ers, ‘Mr. Lord High and Mighty’ running ’er life, and at thirty-two, mind you. Most of ’er friends are married by now, so they ain’t got time to go out with the other girls like they used to. She’s sort of been left be’ind, ain’t she, Miss? Like so many, really. I mean, men they might’ve married are gone, killed in the war. What’s she supposed to do with ’erself all day? That father of ’er’s don’t think much of ’er, not by the sound of it. She’s really a spinster, all on her own.”

  Maisie winced at Billy’s assessment of the situation. She was, after all, a spinster herself in those terms. “Good. Yes, good point,” she replied, thought for a moment, then opened her document case and removed the books and pamphlets found in Charlotte Waite’s room. She laid them out on the table.

  “What do you make of it all, Miss?”

  Maisie picked up the seal, then the scrap of paper. “Well, the ‘Ch. X’ is Charing Cross.”

  “And ‘Ash’ could be Ashford, couldn’t it, Miss?”

  Maisie nodded. “It’s all fitting together now, Billy. Let’s say this is in connection with the trains that go from Charing Cross to Ashford, where one has to change for the trains to—”

  “Gawd, I don’t know. Apples?” Billy grinned.

  “Appledore!”

  “Appledore?”

  “Yes, I used to go there with my father sometimes. We’d go fishing on the canal near Iden Lock.” Maisie reached for the seal. “And that makes sense of this.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The seal from an envelope. Charlotte had probably received a letter from Camden Abbey, perhaps sent to her with the books and pamphlets, and as she began to read, she tore the seal from the envelope to mark her place.”

  “So what do you think, Miss? Can you tell from this little lot where she’s gone off to?”

  “It tells us that Charlotte was curious about the contemplative life. There’s something I need to look into. I may know someone who can help us.” Maisie gathered the items together and looked at her watch. “Let’s move on. We can’t allow one possibility to cloud our vision. Charlotte could have left these things to dupe her father. Or she could have left with such urgency as to forget them.” She stood up. “Right then. Charlotte’s run away before, but she’s always let her father know where she is, in one way or another. He’s assumed that she’s hiding from him this time. We have to question that assumption and consider other possibilities. Even if we take his account of her departure as truth, she may now be being held against her will, or she may have met with an accident. And of course we cannot rule out the possibility that she may have taken her own life. But let us begin by assuming that she has disappeared voluntarily, has been gone for several days and has deliberately covered her tracks. Why did she leave this time? Where is she? Has she run from something or to something—or someone? I want us to try to have a better feeling for what went on last Saturday, and ho
w far we can believe Waite’s version of events. No need to move anything on the table, but just help me shift it over there a bit, so it’s in the middle of the room.”

  Billy took one end of the table, while Maisie took the other, and they placed it where Maisie indicated.

  “You can be Waite, so sit at this end.” Maisie pointed out the place where Billy should set his chair.

  “I’ll need to shove me jacket up inside me cardigan, Miss, seeing as I ain’t got quite the middle that ’e ’as.”

  “Pretend, Billy. Seriously, I want you to close your eyes, sit at the table, and truly imagine that you are Joseph Waite. I’ll go outside the door, give you a couple of minutes, then I’ll come in and sit down as if I’m Charlotte. For the purposes of this experiment, I am Charlotte.”

  “Awright.” Billy frowned. “I’ll give it a go.”

  Maisie nodded, and walked toward the door, but before reaching for the handle, she turned to her desk, took the Times from her briefcase, and dropped it on the table in front of him.

  “You’ll probably be reading this.”

  She left the room as Billy shifted uncomfortably in the seat. He closed his eyes, drew back his shoulders, tucked his legs underneath the chair so that his heels rode up and the balls of his feet supported the imaginary weight of his middle. His war wound nipped at his leg as he moved, but he ignored it. He puffed out his cheeks for just a few seconds, and imagined what it might be like to have built a successful enterprise to become a powerful man of commerce. Slowly he began to feel quite different, and realized he was getting just an inkling of the way in which Maisie used her knowledge of the body to gain an understanding of another person. He reached for the newspaper and snapped it open, feeling richer than he had felt in a good long while. And it surprised him that he felt a glimmer of an emotion that rarely surfaced in his being: anger.

  “Good morning, Father,” said Maisie, entering the room.

  “Good morning, Charlotte.” Billy reached for his pocket watch, noted the time, and placed the newspaper on the table between them. “What are you doing with yourself today?” He continued, checking his watch again, and taking a sip of tea.

  “I thought I might go shopping and meet a friend for lunch.”

  “Nothing better to do today, Charlotte?”

  There was an edge to Billy’s voice that almost caused Maisie to break out of character and look up, but she continued, defiantly. “What do you want me to do, Father?”

  Billy consulted his watch again without responding, while Maisie— as Charlotte—reached for the newspaper. She turned to the front page, read barely two lines, then suddenly gasped and burst into tears. She threw down the paper, scraped back her chair, and ran from the room with her hand covering her mouth. Billy sighed, wiped his brow, and stretched out his legs, happy to be rid of his assumed character.

  Maisie returned. “That was an interesting exercise, wasn’t it?”

  “It was really strange, Miss. I remembered watching ’im when ’e talked about Charlotte, so I mimicked his posture.”

  Maisie nodded for Billy to continue.

  “And, well, it was right peculiar, it was, ’ow I started to feel different, like another person.”

  “Explain, Billy. I know this seems difficult, but it is most important and helpful.”

  “I was right touchy, like a piece of tinder ready to catch fire. I started to think about the father that died down the coal pit, ’is mother and ’ow she must’ve ’ad to work ’er fingers to the bone, and then all that ’e’d gone through, ’ard graft, and all. Then I thought about the wife up in Yorkshire, sittin’ on ’er behind, and by the time you walked in the door, I felt all of what ’e’d felt—well, what I felt ’e’d felt—and, to be quite ’onest with you, I didn’t even really ’ave patience with you. I mean Charlotte.”

  “ Do you believe he was in the room when Charlotte ran out?”

  “I reckon so, but it was as if I was making meself sit there, because I’m determined not to let ’er annoy me. I couldn’t do any more reading of the newspaper, I was so . . . so angry! That’s why I ’anded it to ’er, I mean you. What about you, Miss?”

  “You know, after seeing Charlotte’s room yesterday, in taking on her character I wasn’t exactly ‘full of the joys of spring.’ I didn’t get that feeling at all when I was in her room. Instead, I had the sense of a troubled soul. But there must have been provocation of some sort to make her leave home. I have to say, I felt other emotions, though I confess I am now drawing upon the feelings I intuited when we went into her room and when I was alone for a while.” Maisie picked up a pencil from the table and began to doodle along the bottom of the paper. She drew an eye with a single tear seeping from the corner.

  “What did you ‘sense,’ then?” asked Billy.

  “She was confused. As I acted her part at breakfast, I felt a conflict. I could not hate my father, though I dislike what he is and I am trying desperately not to be intimidated by him. I would like to leave his house, to live elsewhere, anywhere. But I’m stuck.” Maisie looked out of the window, allowing her eyelids to close halfway and rest as she considered Charlotte Waite. “I felt defiant when I first picked up the newspaper which, according to Waite, was the last thing Charlotte did before bursting into tears and leaving the room.”

  Billy nodded as Maisie got up from her chair and walked to the window with her arms crossed.

  “What this exercise suggests is that Waite’s recounting of his daughter’s departure has only a tenuous relationship to the truth. It serves to remind us that the story we heard yesterday was told through his eyes. To him, it may be exactly as it happened, but I think if you asked Charlotte, or a fly on the wall, you’d get a different account. One thing, though: We should go through Saturday’s Times to see if anything in it caused Charlotte Waite’s distress.”

  Maisie flicked a piece of lint from her new burgundy suit, which she was beginning to think had been purchased in error as it seemed to attract any white fiber that happened to be passing.

  “I’ll get a copy.” Billy made a note in the cloth-bound palm-size book he carried with him.

  “Let’s put the table back and go over the rest of the visit carefully. Then I’ve some paperwork to do before we go our separate ways at noon. We should meet back here at about five, to exchange notes.”

  “Right you are, Miss.”

  “By the way, I didn’t know you could mimic a northern accent.”

  Billy looked surprised as he leafed through his notebook, pencil at the ready to work on the case map. “What d’yer mean, Miss? I ain’t got no northern accent. I’m an East End of London boy. Shoreditch born and bred, that’s me.”

  Billy left the office first, taking with him the address book found in Charlotte Waite’s rooms. There were few names listed, all with London addresses except for a cousin and Charlotte’s mother, both in Yorkshire. Billy had already confirmed that Charlotte had not sought refuge with either of them. As Joseph Waite supported both his wife and niece, it was unlikely that they would risk their future financial security by deceit. Billy’s next task was to confirm each name listed and also find out more about Charlotte’s former fiancé, Gerald Bartrup.

  Maisie cast a final glance around the office, then departed after locking up. Once outside, she made her way along Fitzroy Street, then Charlotte Street, taking a route parallel to Tottenham Court Road. As she walked toward her destination—the Waite’s International Store on Oxford Street—she turned the contents of Charlotte’s address book over in her mind, then mentally walked through Charlotte’s rooms once more. Maisie always maintained that first impressions of a room or a person were akin to soup when it was fresh. One can appreciate the flavor, the heat and the ingredients that went into the pot that will merge together to provide sustenance. But it’s on the second day that a soup really reveals itself and releases the blending of spices and aromas onto the tastebuds. In the same way, as Maisie walked through the rooms in her mind’s eye, she was
aware of the rigid control that pervaded the Waite household and must have enveloped Charlotte like a shroud.

  In suggesting they recreate the scene at breakfast, when Charlotte Waite hurriedly left the room in a flood of tears, Maisie was using one of Maurice’s training techniques that had become a standard part of their investigative procedure. She knew that, as her assistant, Billy had to be constantly aware of every single piece of information and evidence that emerged as their work on a case developed. His senses must be fine-tuned, and he had to think beyond what was seen, heard and read. Useful information might just as likely be derived from intuition. He must learn to question, she thought, not to take any evidence at face value. Maurice often quoted one of his former colleagues, the famous professor of forensic medicine, Alexandre Lacassagne, who had died some years earlier: As my friend Lacassagne would say, Maisie, ‘One must know how to doubt.’

  As Maisie walked purposefully toward the shop, a key question nagged at her: Where would a person who carried such a heavy burden run to? Where could she go to find solace, compassion—and herself? As she considered the possibilities, Maisie cautioned herself not to jump to conclusions.

  She walked along Charlotte Street, then crossed into Rathbone Place until she reached Oxford Street. Joseph Waite’s conspicuous grocery shop was situated across the road, between Charing Cross Road and Soho Street. For a few moments, Maisie stood looking at the shop. Blue-striped awnings matching the tiled exterior extended over the double doors through which customers entered. To the left of the door, a showcase window held a presentation of fancy tinned foods and fruits and vegetables; to the right, a corresponding window held a display of meats. Whole carcasses were hooked to a brass bar that ran along the top and chickens hung from another brass bar halfway down. A selection of meats was displayed on an angled counter topped with a slab of marble to better exhibit the legs of lamb, pork chops, minced meats, stewing steaks, and other cuts strategically placed and garnished with bunches of parsley, sage, and thyme to tempt the customer.