CHAPTER FIVE
Maisie doubted that Stratton would seriously consider Billy Beale a suspect. They had met before and Stratton seemed both impressed by Billy’s devotion to his employer and amused by his enthusiastic approach to his new job. On the other hand, he might suspect that Maisie had gone to the house to cover up Billy’s tracks. No, the Inspector was an intelligent man, he would not seriously consider such a thing, though he would want to question Billy to eliminate him from inquiries and to extract any useful observations.
Maisie reached the top step of the first flight of stairs and lingered over a concern: Joseph Waite’s demand that the police not be notified of his daughter’s disappearance despite the possible relevance of Charlotte’s friendship with Lydia Fisher. The pursuit of the murderer might require that this information be disclosed. Maisie worried about the consequences of withholding evidence from Stratton. And she worried about something else: What if Waite was wrong? What if Charlotte had not disappeared of her own free will? What if she knew the murderer? Could she have become another victim? But then again, what if Charlotte had killed her friend—had killed two friends?
Before she could open the door to the office, it swung open and Billy stood waiting, his jacket removed and shirtsleeves rolled up, ready for work. Maisie looked at her watch.
“Billy, let’s sit down.”
Billy’s ready smile evaporated. “What’s wrong, Miss?”
“Sit down first, Billy.”
Billy became agitated, which accentuated his limp. Maisie understood, knowing that the unease of the moment would strike his leg, a point of physical vulnerability.
Maisie sat opposite him and deliberately relaxed her body to bring calm to the room and to communicate that she was in control of the situation. “Billy, this morning I went to the home of Lydia Fisher in Cheyne Mews and found her—dead.”
“Oh my Gawd!” Billy rose from the chair, half stumbling, to stand by the window. “I knew she was drinking too much.” Agitated, he ran his fingers repeatedly through his hair. “I should’ve taken away the bottle, got on the blower to you, got you over there. You would’ve known what to do. I could’ve stopped ’er, I knew she was downin’ ’em too fast, I should—”
“Billy.” Maisie left the table and stood in front of her assistant. “Lydia Fisher was murdered after you left her yesterday. There was nothing you could have done.”
“Murdered? Topped by someone?”
“Yes. The exact time of death has yet to be determined, but when I quickly examined the body, I estimated that she had lain there since early yesterday evening.”
Maisie recounted her visit to the Fisher home, finding the body, her subsequent initial questioning and the meeting with Stratton later. Billy was fearful of the police interrogation that would doubtless ensue. Maisie asked Billy to describe this meeting with Lydia Fisher again, and his departure from the mews house.
“Billy, you did a good job,” she said when he had concluded shakily. “I will explain to Detective Inspector Stratton that you were working on behalf of a concerned father, and so on. The challenge will be to keep the Waite name out of the conversation.” Maisie rubbed her neck, thought for a moment, and continued. “But the fact is, apart from the killer, you were possibly the last person to see Lydia Fisher alive.”
“And she was pretty well oiled when I left, and that’s a fact.”
“What was the time again?”
“I got back ’ere at five, didn’t I? For our meetin’.” As he spoke, Billy reached into his jacket, which was hanging over the back of the chair, and pulled out his notebook. “And I ’ad a couple of other errands to do, so it was about . . . ’ere we go, Miss, it was twenty-five past three in the afternoon.”
“Was anyone else in the house at the time, other than the staff?”
“Now, it’s funny that you should say that, Miss, because although I didn’t see anyone, I thought someone else might be about. In fact, now I come to think of it, I saw a suitcase—one of them big leather ones with the straps—on the landing.”
“That’s interesting. I don’t remember seeing a large suitcase this morning.”
“P’r’aps the maid moved it. It could’ve belonged to Mrs Fisher, couldn’t it? Remember, she corrected me, Miss? I noticed she ’ad a wedding ring on, but the ’ouse didn’t ’ave that feelin’ about it, y’know, like there was a man about.”
“Why didn’t you say anything about this, Billy?”
“Well, Miss, she wasn’t dead then, was she? And I wasn’t lookin’ out for ’er . I was only there to find out about Miss Waite, wasn’t I?”
Maisie sighed. “Fair enough. But remember—”
“Yeah, I know, ‘Everything in its entirety must be written down.’Well, Miss, I did do that, I did write it down in my book, but I just didn’t say nothin’ because Mrs. Fisher wasn’t the one what’d run off, was she?”
Billy sat down awkwardly, though Maisie remained standing and looked out across the square. It was darker now. He had mentioned earlier that he wanted to be home in time to take his children to the recreation ground. It crossed Maisie’s mind that he had been optimistic in thinking that he would get home while it was still light enough to play outdoors. She turned back to him.
“Yes, you’re right, Billy. Now then, recall one more time what happened when you left.”
“When she’d told me about Miss Waite and the nuns, and all, she seemed to be lollin’ all over the place, so I said my good-byes and thank-you-very-muches, and off I went.”
Maisie sighed. “Oh dear. I do wish one of the household had let you out.”
“So do I, come to think of it. But the maid wasn’t there. Mind you, I think someone else went in after me.”
“Well, I would hope so, Billy.”
“Nah, Miss, you know what I mean. Directly after me.”
“Explain.”
“I was on the street, and you know ’ow narrow them mewses are, don’t you? Well, it was that funny it was, because I came out of the ’ouse, ’ad to squeeze past that big car of ’ers, the way she’d parked it all over the pavement, then I turned right to go down toward Victoria. I ’adn’t gone but a couple of yards when I ’eard steps behind me; then the door slammed. I thought it must’ve been Mr. Fisher, comin’ in from work or somethin’ and I just ’adn’t seen ’im.”
“You’re sure it was Number Nine’s door that opened and closed?”
“As sure as I can be. It was the sound, Miss. I’m good wiv noises. It’s ’avin the nippers what does it—always gotta know where the noise is comin’ from, otherwise the little beggars’ll be getting’ up to no good at all. Anyway, if it’d been the next ’ouse along, it wouldn’t ’ave sounded the same, in either direction. No, it was Number Nine.” Billy looked at Maisie, his eyes revealing the shock of a sudden unwanted thought. “’ere, Miss, you don’t think it was the one what did ’er in, do you?”
“It’s a possibility.”
Maisie considered another possibility, that Lydia Fisher might have been lying to Billy throughout. The suitcase he noticed could have belonged to Charlotte Waite. It might have been Charlotte who— alone or aided by another—had slain her friend. Waite had referred to his daughter as a “wilting lily” but Maisie was begining to consider her a dark horse.
“This is getting’ interestin’, innit, Miss?”
“Intriguing is what it is. Intriguing. I’ve written to Dame Constance at Camden Abbey in Kent, and expect to hear from her by return. Whether Charlotte has run there for shelter or not, Dame Constance will be able to throw light on the mind of an aspiring nun. I’ll visit her as soon as I can. And I want to consult with Dr. Blanche, so I’ll stop at the Dower House at Chelstone to see him first.”
“Will you see your old dad while you’re there?”
“Of course I will. Why do you ask?”
“Wonderful man, your dad. You just don’t seem to see much of ’im, that’s all, seein’ as ’e’s your only real family.”
> Maisie drew back, surprised. The simplicity of Billy’s observation stung her, as if she had been attacked by an unseen insect. She knew that it was only the truth that could injure in such a manner, and her face reddened.
“I see my father as much as I can.” Maisie leaned toward a pile of papers, which she shuffled before consulting her watch. “Goodness me, Billy! You should be on your way. You won’t be home in time to play with your children though, will you?”
“Oh yes I will, Miss. Never miss a play before they go up to bed. Nice to ’ave a bit of a romp around, although the missus moans about it, says it gets ’em all excited so they won’t sleep.”
“We might as well finish work for the day. I’m meeting Detective Inspector Stratton tomorrow morning to go to Lydia Fisher’s house. Be prepared to hold the fort for a couple of days while I am down in Kent.”
“You can count on me, Miss.” Billy extended his wounded leg and rose from his chair.
“That leg giving you trouble again? You seemed to be in less pain this morning.”
“It comes and goes, Miss. Comes and goes. I’ll be off then.”
“Very well, Billy.”
Billy pulled on his overcoat and gave a final wave before clambering down the stairs in an ungainly fashion that could be heard with each receding footfall. The front door opened and closed with a thud. It was six o’clock.
Maisie was in no rush to leave. It had been a long day, and so much had happened. But far from being anxious to return to her rooms, Maisie felt a dragging at her heart as she contemplated the evening ahead. Perhaps she would go down to the kitchen and have a cup of cocoa with Sandra, one of several housemaids who remained at the Comptons’ Belgravia mansion while the rest of the household were at Chelstone. Though Sandra, Valerie, and Teresa were all nice girls, they weren’t quite sure about Maisie Dobbs, whom they knew had been one of them once upon a time but wasn’t anymore. So they were often uneasy about initiating conversation with her, though they were friendly enough.
Gathering up her notes, Maisie placed some outstanding correspondence in her document case, checked that her desk was secure, turned off the gaslights and left the office. Tomorrow was another working day, which, it was to be hoped, would reveal more about the death of Lydia Fisher and, perhaps, about the character, motives, and whereabouts of her client’s daughter. She made a mental note to prepare some additional questions for Joseph Waite about his daughter’s friends. She had not yet decided whether to ask him about his son.
The square was busy when she closed the outer door behind her. There were people wandering across to visit friends, art students from the Slade returning to their digs, and a few people going in and out of the corner grocery shop where Mrs. Clark and her daughter, Phoebe, would be running back and forth to find even the most obscure items that the eclectic mix of customers in Fitzroy Square requested, despite the fact that the country was in the midst of a depression.
Maisie had turned right into Warren Street, pulling on her gloves as she walked, when she stopped suddenly to look at two men who were standing across the road. They had just exited the Prince of Wales pub and stood for a moment under a streetlamp, then moved into the shadows away from the illumination. Maisie also stepped into the shadows to avoid being seen. They spoke for a few moments, each nervously casting glances up and down the street. One man, the stranger, pulled an envelope from a pocket inside his coat, while the other looked both ways, took the envelope, and placed something in the first man’s waiting hand. Maisie suspected that it was several pound notes rolled together, payment for the first item. She continued to watch as the men departed. The one she did not know walked back into the pub, while the fair hair of the other man caught the faint light of the streetlamps burning through an evening smog, as he limped unsteadily on his way toward the Euston Road.
Maisie was deeply troubled as she sat in her rooms at 15 Ebury Place that evening. When Sandra came to inquire whether she would like “a nice cup of cocoa,” Maisie declined the offer and continued to stare out of the window into the darkness. What was happening to Billy? One minute he seemed to be in the depths of a debilitating malaise, the next revitalized and energetic. He seemed to ricochet between forgetting the most basic rules of their work together—work that he had taken to so readily—and being so productive in his duties as to cause Maisie to consider an increase in wages at a time when most employers were rendering staff redundant. Billy’s war wounds were still troubling him, no matter how strong his protestations. And perhaps she had completely underestimated his ability to cope with memories as they were brought in on the tide of pain that seemed to ebb and flow in such a disturbing manner.
Silence encroached, seeping even into the very fabric of the rich linen furnishings. Maisie gathered her thoughts and sought to banish the sound of nothing at all by reviewing her notes on the Waite case once again. Lydia Fisher had been killed before she could ask her about Charlotte Waite. Had she been murdered to prevent Maisie from seeing her? But what about the Coulsden case? Had it really been the newspaper account of that murder that had caused Charlotte to bolt? Could the two murders be random and simply a coincidence that should have no bearing on Maisie’s assignment? Maisie pondered more questions, then finally put her work aside for the night. She felt a lack of composure in her body, a sure sign of the turmoil in her mind, which must be stilled if she was to enjoy a good night’s sleep and a fruitful morning.
Taking the pillows from her bed, Maisie placed them on the floor, loosened her dressing gown slightly for greater freedom of movement, and sat down with legs crossed. There was only one way to still her thoughts and racing heart, and that was to secure dominion over her body in meditation. She took four long breaths through her nose, placed her hands on her knees with the thumb and forefinger of each hand touching, and half closed her eyes. Allowing her gaze to rest on a barely discernible stain on the carpet in front of her, Maisie endeavored to banish all thought. Slowly the stillness of the room embraced her being, and the heartbeat that had been so frantic seemed to become one with her breath. As a consideration or worry struggled to enter her mind, Maisie relaxed and refused such thoughts an audience, instead imagining them leaving the range of her inner vision, like clouds that pass in the afternoon sky. She breathed deeply and was calm.
Later, as Maisie opened her eyes fully, she acknowledged the truth that had been revealed to her in the silence—the truth that had caused her to avoid visiting her father, for he would see it immediately. The truth that Maisie had been avoiding for so long was a simple one: She was lonely. And as she remained still for just a moment longer, she wondered if that, too, had been Charlotte Waite’s sorrow.
CHAPTER SIX
Maisie awoke as the sun forced its way through the crack where the curtains met, fingering at her leaden eyelids until they opened. She moved her head on the pillow to avoid the blade of light, reached out, and pulled her bedside clock a little closer.
“Oh, lumme, a quarter past eight!”
She leaped from the bed, ran to the bathroom, turned the bathtub taps, and then pulled the lever to activate the shower that had only recently been installed. In addition to piping-hot water that pumped from the eight-inch-diameter showerhead, a series of sprays on the vertical pipe ensured that water reached not only the head but the whole body.
“Oh no!” said Maisie, as she stood under the streaming water and extended her arm to reach the soap, for she had realized that her long tresses, now completely drenched, would not be dry by the time she left the house. Exiting the shower, complaining aloud about the “newfangled thing,” she dried herself quickly, wrapped a thick white towel around her head and put on a plain cotton robe. Sitting at her dressing table, she applied just a little cold cream to her face, rubbing the residue into her hands. She dabbed her cheeks, removing any excess cream with a corner of the towel. She applied only the smallest amount of rouge to her cheeks and lips, then hurried back into her bedroom, opened the wardrobe door and selected
a plain midnight blue day dress with a dropped waistline and sleeves that came to just below the elbow. Maisie had generally chosen dresses and skirts that came to her mid-calf, and was glad that fashion was moving in her direction once again following a flirtation with shorter hemlines. Her trusty dark blue jacket, some years old now, would have to do, as would her old cloche and plain black shoes. In fact the cloche would come in very handy this morning.
She removed the towel from her head and consulted the clock: half past eight. It would take fifteen minutes walking at a brisk clip to reach Victoria, so she had only a quarter of an hour to dry her hair. Grabbing her jacket, hat, gloves and document case, she took six hairpins from a glass bowl on her dressing table and rushed out of her room, along the landing, then through a small disguised door to the left that led to the back stairs of the house.
As Maisie entered the kitchen, the three housemaids, who were talking, seemed to jump as she spoke.“Oh dear, I wonder if you can help, I need to dry my hair ever so quickly!”
Sandra was the first to step forward, followed by Teresa.
“Tess, take Miss Dobbs’s things. Come over here, Miss. we won’t be able to get it bone dry, but enough so’s you can pin it up. Quick, Val, open the fire door.”
Maisie noticed that now she was on downstairs territory, the staff called her “Miss” rather than the more formal upstairs “M’um.” She toweled her head once more, and was instructed to lean over in front of the fire door of the stove, so that the heat would begin to dry her hair.
“Now then, don’t get too close, Miss. You don’t want to singe that lovely hair, now, do you?”
“Singe it? I feel like burning the lot off, Sandra.”
“I suppose we could always go and get Her Ladyship’s new Hawkins Supreme, you know, that green hair-drying machine thing of hers. She only used it the once. Said it was like having a vacuum cleaner going over her head.”
Birds of a Feather Page 8
