Birds of a Feather

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Billy shook his head, while Maisie waited for his story to unfold.

  “Gawd, seems I was like an old man already, but I was only eighteen. Anyway, there we were, walking down the street, when this young lady comes up to us, all smiles. Then she ’ands me and ’im a feather each, and tells us we should be in uniform, and—”

  “Oh my God!” Maisie gasped. “It was there all the time, only I couldn’t see it!”

  Maisie pushed the car into gear, looked over her shoulder, and pulled out onto the road.

  “See what, Miss?”

  “I’ll tell you later, Billy. Keep on with your story.”

  Billy was silent.

  “It’s all right, Billy, I’m still listening.” Maisie pressed down on the accelerator to gain speed.

  “Well, it’s them feathers. Sign of cowardice, ain’t they? I mean, I was signed on anyway, so it didn’t bother me, did it? Water off a duck’s back. But not Bobby, oh no, ’e was only a youngster. Couldn’t wait to be a man. And o’ course, nice young woman comes along, calls ’im a coward, what does ’e do, eh? Goes an’ enlists on the sly, just after I left.”

  Maisie blushed, remembering the lies she told about her age in order to enlist for nursing service, and her father’s furious frustration at her actions.

  “Me mum does ’er pieces, me father went mad, and all the time, I’m runnin’ around takin’ orders from ’igher-ups who didn’t know much more than I did.”

  Suddenly, Maisie slowed the car, her speed checked by the cold chill of realization. “What happened to your brother, Billy?” She looked sideways at him, her hands clutching the steering wheel.

  Billy looked out of the passenger window.

  “Copped it, didn’t ’e. Silly little bugger. Sixteen years of age, and pushin’ up daisies in a place where ’e couldn’t even talk the lingo. All because of a bleedin’ feather.”

  “Why ever didn’t you tell me all this?”

  “S’long time ago, ain’t it, Miss? Mind you, it seems that every time I see a bird, you know, look at a bird, well, the stupid animal seems to drop a feather or two, just as they’re flappin’ their wings t’ get away, and every time I see a feather, I see our Bobby with the feather between ’is fingers, runnin’ after me, sayin, ‘She called me a coward. Did you ’ear that? Eh, Billy? She called me a coward! Now everyone’ll think I’m not up to it!’ But ’e weren’t no coward. Sixteen, and gave ’is life.”

  Billy rubbed at his legs again. Maisie let the silence linger. I must get him to Chelstone as soon as I can.

  “Billy, Billy, I am so very sorry.”

  “Named my boy after ’im, I did. Just ’ope there won’t be any more wars, in case I lose ’im. My biggest fear, that is, Miss. That there’ll be another war, when ’e’s enlistin’ age.”

  Maisie nodded, fearfully.

  “So what’s all this about, then? Y’know, what you couldn’t see when it was there all the time.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Maisie picked up the telephone to place a call to Scotland Yard as soon as she and Billy returned to the office.

  “My old mum always used to say that the best place to ’ide a thing was in plain view. She’d say that when I gave up me wage packet of a Friday night. She’d take the money, stick it in a pot on the table, and then give me a couple o’ bob back for meself. P’raps Miss Waite is ’id-ing somewhere in plain view?”

  Maisie held up her hand for silence as her call was answered.

  “Inspector, I wonder if we might meet to discuss the Sedgewick-Fisher case? I have some information that might be of interest to you.”

  Maisie heard an audible sigh.

  “Is it regarding Mr. Fisher?”

  “Well . . . no, no, not directly.”

  “Miss Dobbs, we are convinced we have the right man.”

  Maisie closed her eyes. She must tread carefully. “I’ve made some observations that may be useful to you.”

  Another sigh, augmented by the sound of voices in the background. Would this telephone call to Stratton be fodder for mirth among the men of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad? It was a risk she would have to take. She could not withhold evidence from them once she was convinced of its importance. If the police refused to listen, that was quite another matter.

  “Look, Miss Dobbs, I am grateful for any and all information. Obviously in my position I can hardly say otherwise, and if your information concerns Fisher, I would be more than delighted to have it. But the point is that we find that investigating many so-called leads wastes valuable time when we already have the killer.”

  “You’ve taken an innocent man into custody, and you should hear me out!”

  “I say, Miss Dobbs, now just you wait a minute!”

  “But Inspector, another perspective might—”

  “All right, Miss Dobbs.” Stratton sounded exasperated, but Maisie knew she had appealed to his sense of duty. “Meet me at the caffy on the corner of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road in—let me see— half-an-hour. ”

  “Thank you, Inspector Stratton. I know exactly where you mean— diagonally opposite Waite’s International Stores.”

  “That’s it. See you in half-an-hour.”

  “Until then.”

  Maisie replaced the receiver and blew a gust of breath between lips rounded into an O.

  “Bit frosty, was ’e, eh, Miss?”

  “More than a bit. And I’ve got to be careful too. In providing Stratton with information, I risk undermining him or antagonizing him further. After all, if he chooses to listen, he’s the one who has to return to The Yard and retract the accusations against Magnus Fisher. I need to keep him as an ally.”

  “What’s wrong wiv ’im, then?”

  Maisie took the folded linen handkerchief from her case and walked to the table where the case map had already been unfurled and pinned ready for work. She motioned for Billy to join her.

  “He’s let two things get in the way, I think: His personal history and his standing in the department. Of course, he has to be careful, because if I were to take a bet on it—”

  “And we know you’re not the bettin’ type.” Billy smiled at her.

  “No, but if I were, I’d wager that Caldwell is after the Detective Inspector’s job, and is making Stratton’s life a misery while he’s nipping at his heels. So Stratton has to be careful in terms of who he is seen taking information from.”

  “What’s ’is personal history, then?”

  Maisie leaned over the map, and unfolded the handkerchief. “Well, he’s a widower. His wife died in childbirth about five years ago, leaving him to bring up his son alone.”

  Billy scrunched up his face, “Aw, blimey, Miss. Tha’s terrible. Wish you ’adn’t’ve told me that. Now I’m gonna think about it every time I see the man.” He leaned forward. “What’ve you got there?”

  “Feathers. Tiny white feathers. The ones I collected during my investigation. I found one feather for each woman. Two were close to where the victims had been sitting just prior to meeting the murderer. In Rosamund Thorpe’s case, the feather was in the pocket of the dress she was wearing when she died.”

  “Ugh.” Billy shuddered.

  “They can’t hurt you. The women who gave them out in the war are the ones who did the harm.”

  Billy watched as Maisie placed the feathers on the case map, using a smudge of paste to secure each one to the paper.

  “Do you know who the killer is, Miss?”

  “No, Billy, I don’t”

  Billy looked sideways at Maisie and refleced for a moment. “But you’ve got an idea. I can see it there.”

  “Yes, yes, I have, Billy. I do have an idea. But it’s just an idea. Right now we’ve got our work cut out for us. We must find Charlotte Waite. Here’s what I want you to do—”

  Billy flipped open his notebook ready to list his instructions as Maisie closed her eyes and ran though a catalog of possibilities: “An animal will make for its lair if in fear or wounded. Mind you,
Charlotte may have no reason to fear, she may just want to get away, to escape from being Joseph Waite’s daughter. We have to consider that she may have fled to Europe, after all, she’s familiar with Lucerne and Paris. See if you can check the passenger list for the boat-train. Charlotte might have traveled from Appledore station on the branch line to Ashford, or she may have come to London first. There are one hundred ways she could have traveled. Check with Croydon Aerodrome and Imperial Airways—oh, and there’s an aerodrome in Kent, at Lympne. Check as many hotels in London as you can—but don’t start with the big ones. Contact the hotels that are neither too posh nor too shabby. Telephone Gerald Bartrup. No, visit Bartrup. I want you to look at him when you ask him if he’s seen Charlotte in the past twenty-four hours. Pay attention, Billy, with your body as well as your eyes. You’ll know if he’s lying.”

  The list was long and Billy would be hard at work until late. Maisie wondered if Charlotte had funds that were known only to her, squirreled away into a private account. Where had she gone? Where was she now?

  Though their conversation was sometimes strained, Maisie looked forward to her meeting with Detective Inspector Stratton. She knew that he admired her and was taking tentative steps to further their acquaintance. But how prudent would it be to agree to such an outing? Would her work and her reputation be put at risk by a closer friendship?

  Stratton stood outside the cafeteria where Maisie joined him after walking down Tottenham Court Road from Fitzroy Square. He lifted his hat and opened the door for Maisie.

  “There’s a seat over there. This place is definitely more caff than café, but it’s quick. Tea, toast, and jam?”

  “Lovely, Inspector Stratton.” It was at that point, that Maisie realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  Maisie sat on a bench by a wall decorated with floral wallpaper that was now quite faded and stained in places. She unbuttoned her jacket and looked out of the window while she waited for Stratton, who was at the counter placing cups of tea and a plate of toast and jam on a tray. She craned her neck to watch customers going in and out of Joseph Waite’s double-fronted grocery shop across the road. And they say there’s no money about!

  “Here we are.” Stratton set the tray down on the table, pulled out the chair opposite Maisie, and sat down. “You could stand a spoon up in that tea. They make it strong here.”

  “Stewed tea, fresh from the urn—nothing like it, Inspector. It’s what kept us going over in France.”

  “Yes, and there’s been many a time when a flask of that stuff has sustained me when I’ve had to work all night, I can tell you. Let’s get down to business. I didn’t come here to discuss the tea. What have you come across, Miss Dobbs? I know you did some snooping around when you found Lydia Fisher’s body.”

  “Lydia was a friend of Charlotte Waite. I had been asked by Joseph Waite to locate his daughter, who had left her father’s home temporarily. He is my client.” Maisie reached for a triangular wedge of toast. She was ravenous and quickly took a bite, then dabbed at the sides of her mouth with a handkerchief. This was not the kind of establishment where table napkins were supplied.

  Stratton raised an eyebrow. “Not much to get your teeth into, a missing debutante, if you don’t mind me saying so, Miss. Dobbs.” Stratton reached for a slice of toast.

  “But enough to pay for my own office, an assistant, and a nippy little motor car, Inspector,” replied Maisie, her eyes flashing.

  Stratton smiled. “I deserved that one, didn’t I?”

  Maisie inclined her head.

  “So, let’s get down to brass tacks. What have you got to tell me?”

  “Lydia Fisher and Philippa Sedgewick were friends.”

  “I know that!”

  “As was Rosamund Thorpe, of Hastings.”

  “Who is?”

  “Dead. She is thought to have committed suicide some weeks before Mrs. Sedgewick was murdered.”

  “And this has . . . what to do with your investigation or our murder inquiry?”

  “They were all friends once, the three dead women and Charlotte Waite. A coterie, if you like.”

  “So?”

  Maisie appraised Stratton before speaking again. He’s being deliberately obtuse.

  “Detective Inspector Stratton, people who knew Rosamund Thorpe cannot believe she took her own life. Also, the four former friends seemed to have made a point of avoiding one another. I think they were kept apart by shame. During the war, I believe they distributed white feathers to men who were not in uniform.”

  “Oh, those terrible women!”

  “And . . .” Maisie halted. Shall I tell him about the feathers I found? Will I be mocked? “And . . . I believe that Magnus Fisher did not kill his wife or Philippa Sedgewick. The person you seek is someone—”

  “We have our man!”

  “Inspector, why are you so . . . so . . . quick to send Fisher down?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “The public wants a murderer behind bars, and you—you and Caldwell—have decided to give them one.”

  Stratton sighed. “And we are right. It’s an open-and-shut case.”

  Maisie clenched her fists in frustration. “And you can’t stand a man who abandoned his wife, and whom you believe deprived a loving husband of his.”

  “Look here, Miss Dobbs, leave this sort of work to the professionals. I know you’ve had some luck in the past. You’ve helped us before when you worked for a man of some stature, but . . . do not interfere!” Stratton stood up. “I hope we can meet again under less strained circumstances.”

  As much as she wanted to have a last word, Maisie knew that she must not allow them to part with rancor. “Yes, indeed, Inspector. I am sorry if I have offended you. However, do expect to hear from me again soon.”

  Stratton left the cafeteria, as Maisie took her seat once again. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have lost control. I could see by the way he moved, the way he sat and the manner in which he spoke, that he was obdurate. I’ve told the police as much as they would hear. Should I have mentioned the feathers? No, he would have laughed.

  Maisie gathered her belongings and followed Stratton out.

  She was ready to turn the corner into Tottenham Court Road, when she stopped to look back at the blue and gold-fronted Waite’s International Stores. She changed direction and walked instead toward the entrance of Joseph Waite’s most prominently situated grocery store.

  Once again, when Maisie entered the hubbub of the shop, she watched as assistants reached forward to point to a cheese and nod, or hold up a cut of meat for inspection. Dried fruits were weighed, biscuits counted, and all the time money passed back and forth and shop assistants constantly washed their hands. Maisie stood in the center of the floor, near the round table with a display of the latest foods imported from overseas. Yes, there was money about, despite long lines at soup kitchens in other parts of London.

  Maisie watched the busyness of business in Joseph Waite’s domain. Why have I come back? There is something here for me. What is it? What did I not see last time? She looked up at the walls, at the intricate mosaics that must have cost a fortune. Then down at the polished wood floor and across at the boy whose job it was to walk back and forth with a broom, ensuring that Waite’s customers never noticed so much as a crumb underfoot.

  No one paid attention to the young, well-dressed woman who stood without a shopping bag, making no move toward a counter, and displaying no intention to purchase. Both shop assistants and customers were too preoccupied with their tasks and errands to see her close her eyes and place her hand where she could feel the beating of her heart. Just for a second, just for fleeting moment, Maisie gave herself over to her inner guidance in this most public place. Then, as if responding to a command that only she could hear, she opened her eyes and looked up at the place above the door, at the tiled memorial to the employees of Waite’s International Stores. She allowed her eyes to rest on the tile dedicated to Waite�
�s son, Joseph, beloved heir of a self-made man. A man known to be as hard as rock but at times also a man of compassion. A man of extremes. Don’t stop, said a voice in her head. And Maisie obeyed. She read each name, starting from the beginning: Avery . . . Denman . . . Farnwell . . . Marchant . . . Nicholls . . . Peters . . . so many, oh, so many . . . Richards, Roberts . . . Simms, Simpson . . . Timmins . . . Unsworth . . . every letter in the alphabet was represented as she silently mouthed the names, like a teacher reviewing the class register. Then Maisie stopped reading. Ah. She closed her eyes. Ah. Yes. Of course.

  Opening her eyes again, Maisie looked at each food counter until she saw one of the older members of staff. “Excuse me. I wonder if you could help me?”

  “Yes, Madam, Of course. The sausages are fresh made this morning, by our very own butchers. Personally trained by Mr. Waite, they are. These are the best sausages in London.”

  “Oh, lovely, I’m sure. But could you tell me where I can find someone who worked for Waite’s during the war? Someone who might have known the boys up there?” Maisie pointed to the memorial.

  “But, Miss, there’s names up there from all over. Mind you, old Mr. Jempson in the warehouse knew just about all of the London boys. Joined up together you know, as pals. Most of the boys who enlisted came from the warehouse; it’s where the apprentices start, and where the butchering is done before the carcasses go out to the shops. Waite’s delivers to its own shops with special ice-packed lorries, you know.”