Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Maisie nodded. “Dr. Dene, I wonder if you could advise me on how I might go about initiating Mr. Beale’s withdrawal from the use of such a substance?”

  “I think we can assume that increased physical discomfort was at the root of his initial self-medication. Now we have the addiction itself to cure, and I’m afraid that there is precious little to draw upon. I’m sure there are psychiatrists who would speak of their successes, but frankly I take such claims with a pinch of salt.”

  Dene leaned forward on the desk and looked up at Maisie. “If you want to help Mr. Beale I would suggest the following: Get him away from the source of supply, that’s the first step. Then ensure that the pain is acknowledged and experiment with physical therapies. If necessary we can admit him here as an outpatient and I can prescribe controlled doses of painkillers. Finally, fresh air and something to do that he truly feels is of importance while he recovers. I do not hold with cures for such conditions while the mind and body are idle, it only gives the patient time to consider the desirable effects of the substance that is now no longer available.”

  Dene watched as Maisie nodded her head in agreement.

  “Thank you, Dr. Dene, for your advice and your time. You have been most kind.”

  “Not at all, Miss Dobbs. A summons from our friend Dr. Maurice Blanche is as good as a call to arms.”

  “Before I leave, Dr. Dene, I wonder if by any slight chance you might have known a Mrs. Rosamund Thorpe? I understand she lived locally before her death in February.”

  “How extraordinary that you should ask! Mrs. Thorpe was a visitor to the hospital. There’s a group of women in the town who visit regularly, to read to the patients, talk with them, you know, make the long stay here a little easier to bear. She was widowed not that long before she died, but she never stopped coming here. Mrs. Thorpe was especially good with the old soldiers. Of course she was the same age as most of them, but we do insist upon calling them old, don’t we?” Dene shook his head, and continued. “It was such a shock when we heard. I’d spoken to her many times in the course of my work here, and would never have believed she would take her own life.” He looked again at Maisie. “May I ask why you inquire about her?”

  “I am engaged in work that has brought me into contact with one of her friends. I can say no more. I want to know about Mrs. Thorpe’s life, and her death. Is there anything you can tell me, Dr. Dene?”

  Dene seemed to consider whether to voice his observations, then continued. “Of course, she had been very sad at the passing of her husband, but I think the death was not unexpected as he was a good deal older than Mrs. Thorpe and toward the end was heavily medicated. In fact they had moved here because of his health, hoping the sea air would effect a cure.” Dene shook his head. “The behavior of the younger Thorpes—her stepchildren, who were closer to her in age— over her late husband’s will was reprehensible, but she seemed to evince none of the gloom one might expect to see in one at risk of suicide.”

  “I see.” Maisie hoped that Dene might add more depth and color to the picture he was painting of Rosamund Thorpe. He did not disappoint her.

  “I will say, though, that she seemed different from the other volunteers.” Dene allowed his gaze to wander to a view of the sea beyond the pile of books and notes on the sill above the cast-iron radiators. “She was very intense in her work here, always wanting to do more. If visiting ended at four, most of the women were on their way home at one minute after the hour, but Mrs. Thorpe would spend extra time, perhaps to complete a letter or read to the end of a chapter for some poor soul who couldn’t hold a book. In fact, she once said to me, ‘I owe it to them.’ But it was the way that she said it that caused me to remember. After all, we all feel that we owe so much.”

  Dene turned to Maisie and looked at his watch. “Crikey! I’d better be on my way.” He pushed back his chair, and placed the file to one side, having scribbled on the front: “Return to archives.”

  “Thank you so much for your time, Dr. Dene. Your advice is sound. I appreciate your counsel.”

  “Not at all, Miss Dobbs, not at all. One caution, though: I need not remind you that in taking on the responsibility of helping Mr. Beale, you are also becoming involved, technically, in a crime.”

  “Yes, I am aware of the implication, Dr. Dene. Though I hope—no, expect—Mr. Beale to destroy any illicit substances soon after we speak.”

  Dene raised an eyebrow as he opened the door for Maisie. “Don’t underestimate the task. Fortunately, Dr. Blanche can assist you.”

  As they continued along the corridor, Andrew Dene gave Maisie directions to Rosamund Thorpe’s house and the name of her housekeeper. Clearly everyone knew everyone else in the Old Town.

  When they reached the door, Maisie had one more question for Andrew Dene. “Dr. Dene, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you seem to know Dr. Blanche very well, more than one might expect from someone who was simply one of many students in a lecture hall or tutorial. And your assessment of the situation with Mr. Beale and your subsequent advice are very much what I might expect to hear from him.”

  Dene affected an accent he had lost long ago, explaining, “I’m a Bermondsey boy, ain’t I?” Then he continued, reverting to his previous Home Counties diction, “My father died when I was young—he was a steeplejack—and then, when I was barely fifteen and out at work at the brewery myself, my mother became ill. There was no money for doctors. I made my way to Dr. Blanche’s clinic and begged him to come to the house. He visited each week and instructed me in her care, so I was able to administer medicine and make her comfortable even at the end. I paid him back by helping him. At first he trusted me with errands, then I helped at the clinics—obviously not with patients, as I was just a boy. If it hadn’t been for Dr. Blanche, I might never have known what I wanted to be, or what I could be. He helped me to apply to Guys, which I attended on a scholarship. Mind you, I had to work night shifts at the brewery to earn my keep. Then the war broke out, and I think you know the rest.”

  Maisie smiled. “Yes I do, Dr. Dene. I know the rest very well.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Maisie parked the MG on the West Hill and looked across toward the East Hill, where she had strolled just thirty-five minutes earlier. She had walked down the 158 steps from the top of the cliffs onto Tackleway Street, then through a narrow alleyway known to locals as a “twitten,” one of the many almost-secret paths that crisscrossed the Old Town of Hastings. It led out onto Rock-a-Nore, where she had parked the motor car. No wonder smugglers loved this place, thought Maisie.

  It was a fine Spring afternoon. The sun and a light breeze conspired to glance light off whitecaps in such a way that the view across the Channel seemed to be repeatedly punctured by shards of crystal. Maisie shielded her eyes from the prismatic flashes of light as she looked out over the water before making her way to the four-storey Regency house that had been the home of Rosamund Thorpe. She was anxious to interview the housekeeper and be on her way back to Chelstone, to plan the next part of her visit to Kent. She was abundantly aware that the initial meeting with Joseph Waite had taken place almost a week ago, and she was not yet certain she had located her client’s daughter.

  A short woman answered the door and smiled warmly at Maisie. “You must be Miss Dobbs.”

  Maisie returned the smile. She thought the housekeeper resembled the quintessential grandmother, with her tight white curls, a plain dress in wool the color of heather, and stout black shoes.

  “Young Dr. Dene from the convalescent hospital telephoned me and said to expect you. Very nice man, isn’t he? Surprised he’s not married, after all, it’s not as if there’s a shortage of young women. Mind you, he was walking out with that one girl last—Oh, excuse me, Miss Dobbs, I do go on at times! Now then—” Mrs. Hicks showed Maisie into a drawing room with bowed windows that commanded a view across the West Hill. “Dr. Dene said that you were a friend of a friend of Mrs. Thorpe’s and wanted to know more about her passing on.” The house
keeper regarded Maisie intently. “Normally, I wouldn’t be talking to anyone outside the family, but Dr. Dene said it was important.”

  “Yes it is, Mrs. Hicks, though I can’t really say much about it at the moment.”

  Mrs. Hicks nodded and wrung her hands together in her lap, revealing her discomfort and, Maisie suspected, the fact that she wanted to speak of her employer very much. Maisie would give her that opportunity.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Hicks, is the house for sale? Mrs. Thorpe passed on some two months ago now, didn’t she?”

  “They—Mr. Thorpe’s children by his first marriage, that is—have asked me to stay on and keep the place up until it’s sold. It has only just gone up for sale, as there was a lot of legal to-ing and fro-ing and paperwork and so on to go through after . . .” Mrs. Hicks’s bottom lip wobbled, and she hurriedly pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket. “I’m sorry, Miss, but it was so very hard, finding her there. . . .”

  “You found Mrs. Thorpe?”

  Mrs. Hicks nodded. “I went up in the morning because she was late rising. Since Mr. Thorpe passed away, the house has been so quiet. Even though he was that much older, they were always laughing together. I tell you, if they saw two raindrops running down the window, they’d bet on which one would reach the bottom first and have a giggle over who’d won.” Mrs. Hicks kneaded the handkerchief between her hands. “Anyway, Mrs. Thorpe had trouble sleeping and was an early riser, so it was a change to not to see her up and about.”

  “Was she in bed when you found her?”

  “No, she was . . .” Mrs. Hicks rubbed her eyes with the handkerchief. “She was lying there, on the floor in her sitting room. It’s a small area that connects to the bedroom. She liked to sit there to have tea, for the view. The tea tray was still out from the day before, and there she was.”

  “When had you served tea?”

  Mrs. Hicks looked up at Maisie. “Well, she must’ve made it, because it had been my afternoon off. She often made herself a cup, especially if she thought I was busy with something else. They didn’t keep a big staff here, the cleaning’s done by Mrs. Singleton and Mrs. Acres who come up from the Old Town every morning, and if they were entertaining, they called in a cook and maids. There was only the two of them for me to keep for.”

  “Mrs. Hicks, I know this is difficult for you, but did you notice anything that made you think twice when you went into the room, or when you looked at it later?”

  “It was all such a shock, but I suppose there was one thing that I thought about, you know, afterwards.”

  Maisie sat forward to listen.

  “The tea tray was set for two: Two pieces of malt loaf, watercress sandwiches for two, two scones and some biscuits. But only one teacup had been used. So I wondered if she was expecting someone who hadn’t arrived. Mind you, she hadn’t said anything to me in the morning. Apparently she’d taken it, the poison, and washed it down with a cup of tea and a biscuit. But, I don’t know . . . .”

  “What don’t you know, Mrs. Hicks?”

  “She was a funny little thing at times. She would spend hours up at All Saints’ with the soldiers. I used to tell her that she did too much, but she’d say to me, ‘Mrs. Hicks, I have to make things right.’ Anybody would have thought she was responsible for their suffering, the way she said it. She was well-liked in the town, would always stop to talk to folk if she was out walking, not one of those uppity types.” Mrs. Hicks bit her lip. “I know she was sad, very sad, when Mr. Thorpe passed on, but I never, never knew that she was in such a state as to take her own life.”

  “Mrs. Hicks, I know this is a strange question, but—do you really think she committed suicide?”

  Mrs. Hicks sniffed and dabbed at her nose; then, emboldened by loyalty to her employer, she sat up. “No, Miss Dobbs. I do not.”

  “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted her gone?”

  “The younger Thorpes were jealous of her, no doubt about that, but to do away with her? No, they haven’t got it in them. No gumption at the best of times, that pair. Still, they did want the money and property that was left to her by her husband, even though they were very well taken care of. They quite enjoyed all the back-and-forth with solicitors. Made them feel important. Otherwise I don’t think she had an enemy. Though she must have, if her life was taken by someone else. I don’t think she’d’ve done it by accident, either. Very careful, she was, very careful. Wouldn’t even take a powder if she had a cold. Of course, there were still medicines in the house from when Mr. Thorpe was ill. For the pain. That’s what the doctor said she’d taken. An overdose of the painkillers. But I just can’t see her doing it.” Mrs. Hicks rubbed the handkerchief across her eyelids and dabbed at her nose again.

  Maisie reached out and touched the housekeeper’s arm. “Would you show me where you found Mrs. Thorpe?”

  Maisie stood in the light and airy room, a gentle breeze blowing curtains through sash windows that were half open. She was sorry that the death was so far in the past, for the room had doubtless been cleaned several times since Mrs. Hicks found the body of Rosamund Thorpe, as she had shown Maisie, lying between the small table set for tea and the settee placed at an angle to the window, offering views across the rooftops to the East Hill and out toward the Channel.

  “Mrs. Hicks, I know this may sound a little unusual, but would you mind if I spent a few moments in the room alone?”

  “Of course, Miss Dobbs. Has a funny feel about it, this room, doesn’t it? Can’t put a finger on it myself, but it was always there, even before she died.” Mrs. Hicks dabbed at her eyes. “I’ll just be outside if you need me.”

  Maisie closed her eyes. She stood perfectly still and allowed her senses to mingle with the aura of Rosamund Thorpe that still lingered in her room. Her skin prickled with sensation, as if someone had stood next to her and touched her lightly on the arm, to share a confidence, to say, “I am here, and this is my confession.” She opened her mind to the secrets held within the walls and recognized the familiar presence of a troubled soul, kindred spirit to the veils of emotion left behind by Charlotte Waite and Lydia Fisher. She suspected already that Philippa Sedgewick had been equally troubled. Four unsettled women. But what could be at the heart of their disquiet?

  As she breathed deeply and silently, Maisie framed a question in her mind: What can you tell me? It was immediately answered with a picture in Maisie’s mind’s eye, an image that began as a simple outline, gaining form and texture as if it were a photograph set in a tray of developing solution. Yes, she could see it. She hoped Mrs. Hicks might be able to offer an explanation, and summoned the housekeeper.

  Mrs. Hicks poked her head around the door before entering. “All done, Miss?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The housekeeper led the way downstairs, and opened the front door for Maisie.

  “I wonder, Mrs. Hicks, if I might ask one more question.”

  “Of course, Miss. Anything I can do to help.”

  “Do you know what medicines Mr. Thorpe was prescribed by his doctor?” asked Maisie.

  “Well, I do know that there were different mixtures and tablets. Mrs. Thorpe was most particular to measure them out in the morning, putting them in little saucers. He had pills breakfast, lunch, supper, and bedtime. But at the end, you know, the doctor prescribed morphine. Mrs. Thorpe was very upset about it. She said you know there’s no hope when they start giving a patient morphine, because it means there’s nothing more they can do to save a life. All they can do is stop the pain.”

  Maisie loved to drive the motor car, whether weaving in and out of traffic in London—which was always a challenge given the noisy mixture of motor lorries, cars large and small, and horse-drawn delivery vans carrying groceries and beer—or meandering along country roads with only her thoughts for company. She found it easy to think in the car, turning over facts and ideas as she changed gear, or slowed down for a farmer moving sheep from one field to another.

  Conversations w
ere replayed, possibilities for action assessed and considered, and all manner of outcomes pictured in her mind’s eye. Sometimes another driver might stop alongside the MG in slow traffic, look across at the young woman in the fast car with the cloth top down, and see her speaking to herself, her mouth opening and closing as she asked a question. Then, hearing the words aloud, she would nod.

  She was driving across Kent to Romney Marsh. Dame Constance Charteris, Abbess of Camden Abbey, expected her at ten o’clock on the dot. She had left her father’s cottage at Chelstone just after eight, allowing more time than was required for the journey because she wanted to think, to run through yesterday evening’s conversations with Maurice and Lady Rowan, as well as to recollect the time spent with her father.

  Maurice had quickly stepped forward to help Billy Beale, assisted by Dr. Andrew Dene who, it seems, had been busy with his telephone again, speaking to Maurice after his meeting with Maisie to offer support in Billy’s recovery. Billy could not be admitted as an in-patient at All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital, but Andrew Dene offered to monitor his health along with his progress in overcoming a dependence on narcotics—if Billy was agreeable to leaving London. By the time Maisie had arrived back at Chelstone, it seemed that Maurice had already devised a skeleton plan, with the help of Frankie Dobbs. Billy would come to Chelstone, stay at the Groom’s Cottage with Frankie, and meet with Maurice each day to “talk.”