She was quite cold by the time she reached 9 Cheyne Mews, a typical mews house in which horses had once been stabled, facing a brick street. Now the only means of transportation evident to Maisie was a sleek new Lagonda parked outside the Fisher residence. She knew from George, the Comptons’ chauffeur, who regularly regaled her with news of the latest automobile inventions, that this was an exclusive motor car, capable of more than ninety miles per hour. The Lagonda had been parked without due care; one of the front wheels rested on the narrow pavement. Unlike the neighboring houses, the three-storey house was plain, unadorned by windowboxes. There was just one step up to the front door. Maisie rang the bell and waited for the maid to answer. When no one came, Maisie rang the bell again and then a third time, at which point the door finally opened.
“Sorry M’um. Begging your pardon for keeping you waiting.” The young maid was flushed and in tears.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Fisher.” Maisie inclined her head. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, M’um.” Her bottom lip trembled. “Well, I don’t know, I’m sure.” She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her lace apron and dabbed her eyes.
“What is it?” Maisie placed a hand on the maid’s shoulder, a move that caused the girl to break down completely.
“Let’s get you inside, and then tell me what’s wrong.”
Standing in the narrow hallway, the maid blurted out her fears. “Well, the lady hasn’t got up yet, and I’m new here, see, and the cook, who knows her better than me, doesn’t get here till half past eleven. The lady told me yesterday afternoon that she didn’t want to be disturbed until nine this morning, and look at the time now! I’ve knocked and knocked, and I know she had a drink or two yesterday afternoon, and I know she would’ve kept going—I’ve learned that already—and she’s got a temper on her if she’s crossed, but she did say—”
“Now then, calm down and show me to her room.”
The maid looked doubtful, but when Maisie informed her that she had once been a nurse, the maid nodded, rubbed her swollen eyes, and led Maisie up a flight of stairs to the first floor where the main reception and bedrooms were situated. She stopped outside a carved door that looked as if it might have been brought from an exotic overseas locale. Maisie knocked sharply.
“Mrs. Fisher. Are you awake? Mrs. Fisher!” Her voice was loud and clear, yet there was no answer. She tried opening the door, which was locked. Maisie knew that it was crucial that she gain entrance to the room.
“She may be indisposed, especially if she overindulged. I’ll need to get into the room. Go downstairs and prepare a glass of water with liver salts for her.”
The maid hurried downstairs. Maisie shook her head: She’s so new she hasn’t even asked my name.
Opening her document case, Maisie reached for a cloth bag with a drawstring top that contained several implements, similar to fishermen’s needles, of varying size. She selected one. That should do it. She knelt, inserted the sharp point into the keyhole and manipulated the lock. Yes! Maisie stood up, closed her eyes for just a second to control the images rushing into her mind’s eye, and opened the door.
Lydia Fisher’s body lay on the floor between an elegant pale blue chaise longue and an overturned side table, the contents of a tea tray strewn across an Aubusson rug. Maisie was never shocked upon encountering a scene of death. Not since the war. She automatically reached under the woman’s left ear with her fingertips, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. No sign of life. Mrs. Fisher was dressed for an afternoon out. It appeared that she had not changed her clothes after arriving home yesterday.
The corridor floor creaked as the maid returned. Maisie moved quickly to the door to prevent the high-strung young woman from seeing into the room. She stopped her just in time.
“You must do exactly as I say. Telephone Scotland Yard. Ask to speak with Detective Inspector Stratton and no one else. Say that you are acting on the instructions of Miss Maisie Dobbs and that he is to come to this address immediately.”
“Is Mrs. Fisher all right, M’um?”
“Just do as I say—now! When you’ve done that, come back to the room only if there is to be a delay or if you have not been able to speak personally to Inspector Stratton. When the police arrive, direct them to me straightaway.”
Maisie estimated that she would have twenty minutes or so alone in the room. Not as much as she would have liked, but enough. Again she brought out the drawstring bag. She pulled out a folded pair of rubber gloves that were at least one size too small and pulled them onto her hands, pressing down between each finger for a snug fit. She turned to the body of Lydia Fisher.
The woman’s clothing had been torn many times, though there was little blood from the multiple knife wounds to her chest. Kneeling, Maisie looked closely at each burnt umber-rimmed wound, taking care not to disturb the fabric of the victim’s clothing or the position of her body. Next she turned her attention to the terror-filled dead eyes, then to the purple lips and mouth, and the fingers. Ten minutes.
The teapot had been smashed, but some of the dregs were caught in part of its base. Maisie reached into the drawstring bag and took out a small utensil similar to a salt spoon. She dipped it into the liquid and tasted. Then she moved closer and sniffed. Next she turned her attention to the room. Little time remained. Apparently Lydia Fisher had been killed while taking tea with a guest. Maisie suspected that the disarray in the room had been caused by Lydia herself. She walked around the body, noting the position of the chaise and of other furniture that had been disturbed. Ornaments had fallen from another side table, bottles had been knocked from the cocktail cabinet. Maisie nodded: morphine. The narcotic would have caused intense muscle spasms and hallucinations before death. The killer would have watched, perhaps avoiding ever weaker lunges by the victim for fifteen minutes or so before death occurred. And once Fisher was dead, the murderer, who had watched the woman die, had taken another portion of revenge with a knife. Five minutes.
Maisie closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to get a sense of what energies the events of the last twenty-four hours had left in their wake. Though death had surely accompanied him, Maisie felt that the visitor had been known to Lydia Fisher. Maisie had been to murder scenes on many occasions and had immediately felt the frenzy of attack. Fear, and hatred, the emotions that led to such a terrible outcome lingered and caused a constellation of violent jagged colors to blur her vision temporarily, as they had done this morning when she stood outside Lydia Fisher’s carved door. One more minute.
Two motor cars screeched to a halt outside. Maisie deftly removed her gloves and returned them to the cloth bag, which she slipped into her case before moving to a position outside the door to wait for Stratton. She took one last look at Lydia Fisher’s body and the terrible fear etched in the woman’s wide-open eyes.
Maisie heard the maid answer the door, which was quickly followed by an introduction lacking any pleasantries by Stratton, and a terse “Good morning” from his sergeant, Caldwell. The maid informed them that Miss Dobbs was waiting upstairs.
Maisie greeted Stratton and Caldwell and led them into Lydia’s drawing room.
“I came to the house hoping to meet with Mrs. Fisher in connection with an assignment. The maid was distressed that Mrs. Fisher had not answered her knock. She’s new and I think somewhat intimidated by her employer. I informed her that I had been a nurse, and had her bring me here.”
“Hmmm.” Stratton, kneeling by the body, turned to Caldwell, who was inspecting the disarray in the room.
“Looks like she fought off the murderer, sir. Probably a big bloke, I’d say, what with all this mess.”
Stratton met Maisie’s eyes briefly. “I’ll need the murder bag, Caldwell. And try to get hold of Sir Bernard Spilsbury. If you can’t get him, then call out the duty man. Secure the property and place a cordon around the area.”
Caldwell regarded Maisie with a smirk. “Will you be needing me when you question Miss Dobbs here, sir?”
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Stratton sighed. “I will question Miss Dobbs later. This woman was murdered yesterday, probably late afternoon—as Miss Dobbs already knows.” He glanced at Maisie. “For now I want to ensure that the body is inspected and removed for postmortem before the newspapermen arrive. And I have no doubt they’ll arrive soon.”
Maisie was asked to wait in the ground-floor reception room, where she was later questioned by Stratton, accompanied by Caldwell. Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the famous pathologist, arrived and Maisie was permitted to leave, though she knew there would be more questioning to come. As she departed the house she heard Caldwell voice his unsolicited opinion: “Well, sir, if you ask me, it’s her old man. Nearly always is. Mind you, could be she had one on the side, woman like that, all furs and a big car of her own to gad about in. Who knows what she brought home!”
Maisie knew very well who Lydia Fisher had brought home yesterday afternoon. But who might have visited soon after—perhaps soon enough for the tea still to be warm in the pot? Had she answered the door herself? Billy had said the maid left the house on an errand after bringing tea, so he had seen himself out. Had Lydia poured another cup of tea in an effort to regain sobriety in the face of an unexpected caller? How had the visitor found an opportunity to introduce a narcotic into the tea? Had the caller seen that Lydia was intoxicated and offered to make fresh tea? Tea that could so easily be laced with poison? And could more of the drug have been administered while Lydia’s muscles began to spasm after the first few sips? So many questions spun through Maisie’s mind and the one person who could answer them was decidedly not available for questioning. Or was she?
Maisie wondered how she might gain access to Lydia Fisher’s home once more. She wanted to know how Lydia Fisher lived and what had caused her grief, because of one thing she was sure: Lydia Fisher had grieved.
While she walked, Maisie remembered feeling a prickling of the skin on her neck while she stood in the upstairs hallway of Lydia Fisher’s house, outside the room where her body lay. She had not shied away from the sensation but had instead silently asked, What is it you want me to see? Never before at the scene of a crime had Maisie had felt such a duality of sensation, like a fabric that on one side is smooth and satinlike but on the other, rough with a raised pile. She knew that the last person who had come to the house came with a terrible burden. A burden that was no lighter for having taken Lydia Fisher’s life.
Maisie walked quickly toward Victoria underground station. She planned to return to her office as quickly as possible. She would leave a message for Billy to the effect that she would be back at five o’clock. Not a moment was to be lost in the search for Charlotte Waite. If the Coulsden victim, Philippa Sedgewick, had been Charlotte’s friend, as was Lydia Fisher, then Charlotte must be found. One dead friend was a tragedy. Two dead friends . . . a terrifying coincidence.
Just as Maisie reached Victoria, the black car she had already seen once that day drew alongside her. The door opened, and Detective Inspector Richard Stratton emerged and tipped his hat.
“Miss Dobbs, I thought I might find you on your way to the station. I noticed that you didn’t have your little red motor with you today. Look—you’ve had a horrible time this morning—would you care to join me for a quick cup of tea?”
Maisie looked at her watch. Lunchtime had passed and she had hardly noticed. “Yes, I do have time—just—but I must be back at my office by five.”
“I would be delighted to escort you there in the motor car. Let’s just nip across the road.” Stratton indicated a small teashop, and Maisie inclined her head in agreement.
Stratton took Maisie lightly by the elbow to steer her through the sparse traffic. Maisie knew he would likely be less solicitous when he questioned her again formally.
A waitress directed them to a corner table.
“Miss Dobbs, I’m curious about the fact that you visited Mrs. Fisher today of all days. Is there anything else you can tell me about your presence at the scene?”
“I’ve told you all I can, I believe. The victim was once a friend of the young woman I am seeking on behalf of a client. I thought she might be able to assist me.”
The waitress returned with a tray and proceeded to set a white china teapot on the table, followed by a hot-water jug, sugar bowl, milk jug, and two matching white china teacups and saucers. She bobbed a curtsey and left the table, returning a moment later with a plate containing sliced Hovis bread with butter and jam, several iced fancy-cakes and two Eccles cakes.
“Hmmm. Interesting. Mind you, this woman had lots of friends.”
“Perhaps mere acquaintances, Inspector.”
“Yes, possibly.” Stratton looked thoughtful as Maisie began to pour tea.
“So you put the milk in after the tea,” said Stratton.
“The old London way, Inspector Stratton: Never put the milk in first because you might waste some. If you put it in last, you can tell exactly how much you really need.” Maisie handed the cup of tea to Stratton, pushed the sugar bowl toward him, and filled her own cup.
As Stratton lifted the hot tea to his lips, Maisie pressed ahead with her own question. “I take it you agree that the murder at Cheyne Mews is linked to the Coulsden murder, Inspector?”
Stratton set his cup on the saucer so fiercely, the sound caused several people to look in their direction.
“Inspector, it really doesn’t take much in the way of deduction.” Maisie spoke softly.
Stratton regarded Maisie before answering. “In confidence . . .”
“Of course.”
Stratton continued, “The scene was very much the same as the Coulsden murder, with very little bloodshed given the extent of the attack. Spilsbury suspects ingestion of a narcotic, most likely morphine, prior to an assault with a more violent weapon. The same method was used with the Coulsden victim. The body was cold, and rigor had set in.”
“Has Spilsbury indicated the time of death yet?”
“Informally he confirmed it was yesterday, either in the late afternoon or in the evening. I’ll have to wait until he submits his detailed report. He’s usually more definite even at the scene of the murder. Apparently Lydia Fisher dismissed the maid after being served tea yesterday and neither she or the cook had seen her since. But according to the staff, that wasn’t unusual. She was frequently known to go out at night without first requesting the assistance of her maid. And she often took to her rooms for several days on end, demanding not to be disturbed and furious if she was. The murderer could have locked the door to the room behind him, let himself out, and no one the wiser for hours. The cook said that the previous maid wouldn’t turn a hair if Mrs. Fisher remained in her rooms for two or three days. If you hadn’t arrived at the house and found the young maid in tears, the body could have lain there for a long time. The cook would have come along, told her not to fuss, and that would have been that.”
“Thank heavens I called to see her.”
“There’s something else. The maid went out after tea on Wednesday, which the victim took with a man of about thirty to thirty-five. By the way, Miss Dobbs, I must underline again the need for absolute confidence.” Stratton sipped his tea and looked at Maisie intently.
“Of course, Inspector.” Maisie wanted Stratton to continue.
“Anyway, he was of medium build, with a slight limp—possibly an old soldier—and he had hair ‘like a stook of hay,’ according to the maid. He’s our best suspect thus far, so we must identify and find him as soon as possible.”
Maisie set her cup on the saucer, wondering whether she should preempt Stratton’s discovery that Billy Beale had been an earlier visitor. She quickly decided against it. Perhaps there had been another caller whose description was similar.
“Inspector, I know you might find this somewhat irregular, but I wonder, might I revisit the room where the body was found? A woman’s insight might be helpful.”
“Well, it is most irregular, Miss Dobbs.”
Stratton looked at his watc
h. “I will consider it. Now then, I should ensure that you are escorted to your office.”
Maisie waited for Stratton to pull back her chair. They were met outside by Stratton’s driver, who drove them swiftly across London and, arriving at Fitzroy Square, parked the motor car on the pedestrian area outside Maisie’s office.
“Having a police car is handy at times,” said Stratton.
The driver opened the door for Stratton and Maisie to alight and, just as Stratton held out his hand to bid Maisie good-bye, Billy Beale came around the corner. He was carrying his cap. At that moment the last ray of afternoon sun caught his unruly blond hair at the same time as a rogue breeze swept across the square, giving the impression of a wayward halo around his head.
“Evenin’, Miss; evenin’, Detective Inspector Stratton.”
Stratton shook hands with Billy, who touched his forehead, nodded to Maisie, and turned toward the front door. His appearance was not lost on Stratton, who watched Billy walk up the steps, pull the sleeve of his coat down over his hand and polish Maisie’s nameplate in his customary fashion before taking out his key, unlocking the outer door, and entering the Georgian building. As he closed the door behind him, Stratton turned to face Maisie.
“Miss Dobbs, I think perhaps that there is more to discuss regarding your presence in Cheyne Mews this afternoon. However, we can do so tomorrow. I will be here at nine o’clock to collect you so that we may visit Lydia Fisher’s house together. As you said, a woman’s perspective might be of use to the police in the investigation of this crime.”
Maisie held out her hand to Stratton. “Very well, Inspector. However, I would prefer to meet you at Victoria at, say, a quarter past nine? Then we can go on from there. I have other engagements during the day, so I must be back at my office by half past ten.”
“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.” Stratton nodded, stepped into the police car, and was driven away.
Birds of a Feather Page 7
