Billy looked from Maisie to Charlotte Waite and back again. “So, this is it, then?”
“Ready, Billy?”
“I’m ready.” Billy reached for the door handle. “You know, there’s one question I’ve been meaning to ask you, Miss Waite?”
Charlotte looked first at Maisie, then back at Billy. “Yes, Mr. Beale?”
“Did you ’ave two address books, you know, one what was old with all your addresses in, and another what you left behind?”
“Why . . . yes, yes I did. I took the old one with me, because I never did get used to the new one. It was so empty, it made me feel as if I didn’t really know anyone.”
“Thought so. We’d better be on our way now.” He turned to Maisie. “Take care, Miss.”
The light was beginning to fade. Maisie watched from the window of Charlotte’s sitting room as they left, noticing how Charlotte had straightened her spine. The small rear lights of the taxi-cab were extinguished as it drove toward the gatehouse. She knew that she had taken a chance with Billy; his weak leg rendered him a questionable asset. But she was forced to ask him to return surreptitiously to the Waite mansion. She needed a witness, someone on her side, and did not know how far the household could be trusted. If only Stratton had been open to another view—but he had not.
Maisie’s eyes were drawn to the dove-cote, where it seemed for just a second that she saw movement in the evening shadow. Something stirred again, and a few doves flew up. Maisie watched the ghost-like flapping of wings in the twilight sky as the doves circled before swooping down to return to their home for the night. When she looked at the dove-cote again, the shadow was gone. She knew that, disguised as Charlotte Waite, she had cause to fear. Entering the bedroom, Maisie closed the curtains then walked across to the bed. Drawing back the counterpane and bed linens, she pulled off the pillows and repositioned the long bolster so that it seemed as if the bed were occupied.
The oldest trick in the book—let’s hope it works. She turned on the dressing-table lamp and scanned the room before reopening the curtains; then she surveyed her handiwork from the door. Yes. Very good.
In the sitting room, Maisie was reaching for the curtains when she heard a soft knock at the door. She did not answer. There was another gentle knock, then a woman’s voice.
“Miss Waite? Miss Waite? I thought I’d come to see if you’d like a cup of tea. Miss Waite?”
Maisie breathed a sigh of relief. She sat in silence. A minute passed before she heard steps receding along the hallway. She checked her watch, the one accessory she had not relinquished. Billy should be back soon. She sat in the same chair she had occupied on her initial visit to the rooms, when she had first felt Charlotte’s lingering fear and sorrow. And she waited.
Another knock at the door. She listened carefully, for if all had gone well, Billy should have returned by now.
“Miss Waite? Miss Waite? Can you hear me? What about a bowl of thick chicken-and-dumpling soup? You need to keep up your strength, Miss Waite.”
Maisie was silent, listening. When at last footsteps receded along the hallway for a second time, Maisie realized that she was indeed in need of sustenance. Opening Charlotte’s bag, she took out a bottle of lemonade and a sandwich. To maintain absolute silence, she went into the tiled bathroom to eat and take a few sips of lemonade.
It was now completely dark outside. Had she been wrong to anticipate that the murderer would strike again quickly? Time passed slowly.
Ten o’clock. Another knock. Maisie tensed.
“Miss Waite? Miss Waite? You must be gasping for a nice cup of tea and something to eat by now. As you don’t want to see anyone, I’m leaving a tray outside the door. There’s a pot of tea and some macaroons. They’re fresh from the oven, I made them especially for you.”
The tray was set down. Retreating footsteps indicated that the corridor was now empty. Very slowly Maisie turned the key and handle and pulled the tray inside. She closed and locked the door behind her, then set the tray down on the table next to the wing chair.
Maisie lifted the lid of the teapot and sniffed the Earl Grey, strong with the smell of bergamot. Yes. Then she crumbled the fresh macaroon, still warm and filled with the aroma of almonds. Simple attempts to disguise a toxic feast. Taking up the pot, she poured a cup of tea, added milk and sugar, swirled the liquid around then went to the bathroom to pour all but a few dregs into the sink. She poured away half of the tea in the pot, so that the provider would think she had taken two or three cups. Then, leaving the door to the bedroom ajar, she dropped the cup and saucer to the floor, spilling what poison-laced tea was left across the carpet. She was so close to the window that her silhouette could be seen from the gardens so, knowing that there was an observer, she half-staggered across the bedroom and fell onto the bed. Once there, Maisie rolled sideways onto the floor and crawled to the corner, where she took up her hiding place behind the wardrobe. From this vantage point she could see the doorway and the bed. Her only concern now was for Billy’s arrival.
She waited.
Just at the point when she thought a leg cramp was becoming unendurable, a key turned in the lock of the main door to Charlotte Waite’s suite of rooms. Maisie held her breath. A light footfall stopped at the chair; then came a clinking sound as the intruder reached for the fallen china and set it on the tray. She heard the lid being taken off the teapot, then replaced. Another moment passed, footsteps came closer and Maisie crouched lower as a long shadow unfolded across the floor when the door opened wide.
She swallowed and, in the tension of the moment, feared that the person who had come to kill Charlotte Waite might have heard her. Once again she held her breath and watched as a hand was held high with blade ready. The killer moved toward the bed, then lost all control and screamed to the heavens. Doubling over, she keened so deeply and with such passion, that even her shadow seemed to emit a deep guttural cry. She sobbed as only a mother can, her whole body given over to the grief and rage of one who has lost her children. Again and again she rammed the bayonet home into what she believed to be the already cold body of Charlotte Waite.
The killer slumped to the floor, her chest heaving, her lungs gasping for air. Maisie moved to her side, knelt and pulled the woman to her, holding her close while taking the bayonet from her limp, unresisting grasp.
“It’s all over now, Mrs. Willis. It’s all over. It’s over,”
CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO
“Miss!” Billy snapped on the light, kneeling awkwardly beside Maisie. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and carefuly removed the bayonet from her hand.
“Miss, I couldn’t get back in again. I tried, but there was too—”
“Never mind, Billy. Summon Stratton immediately. Go now, but first make sure that bayonet is somewhere safe!”
When Billy returned, Maisie had already helped Mrs. Willis into the sitting room, seating her in Charlotte Waite’s wing chair. She was calm, but her eyes were dull as she stared in front of her.
“He’s coming right over. They telephoned ’im at is ’ome, Miss, and ’e’s on ’is way.”
There was time to sit with the woman who had taken three lives and would have taken a fourth. Billy stood by the door, Maisie kneeling beside Mrs. Willis, who sat gazing into the fire Maisie had lit for her comfort. The scene might have reflected a young woman visiting a favorite aunt.
“I’ll hang, won’t I, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie looked into the glazed eyes of the woman leaning forward in Charlotte’s wing chair
“I cannot second-guess a jury, Mrs. Willis. When the whole story is told, they may find grounds for mercy. You may not even be considered fit to stand trial.”
“Then they’ll send me away.”
“Yes. You will lose your freedom.”
Mrs. Willis nodded, her lips forming a crooked smile. She gazed into the flames. “I lost my freedom a long time ago, Miss Dobbs.”
Maisie remained still. “I know.”
“They killed my whole family.
All except my youngest, and he’s as good as lost to me.”
“Yes.” Maisie knew that now was not the time to raise the issue of nuances, of what might have happened anyway, after conscription.
“It seems if it were yesterday.” Mrs. Willis looked up at Maisie. Billy came a little closer so that he, too, could hear.
“My Frederick was a master butcher. Had worked for Waite’s for years. We were young when we got married. I fell for our eldest straight away; honeymoon baby, that’s what they called him. Our Anthony. Oh, he was a love. Soft, was Tony. If that boy saw a bird in the street that couldn’t fly, well, it would be in the kitchen with a saucer of bread and milk before you knew it. Then a year later came Ernest. Different kettle of fish altogether, that Ernest. . . .” Mrs. Willis smiled as she looked into the past.
“Ernest was a little tyke. If there was mischief, then you could bet Ernest was in the middle of it. But Tony was there to put him right, and as much as they were chalk and cheese, they were always together. Always. Then came Wilfred, Will, our youngest. Loved books, loved to read. And so thoughtful, you’d have supposed he was in a dream half the time. The neighbors said I was lucky, to have three boys who got on so well. Of course there were times that they had a bit of a dustup. Like puppies, tumbling all over each other until Frederick had to go out and take each of them by the scruff of the neck. He was a big man, my Frederick. He’d end up there with them, wrestling in the garden with them all over him. People said I was born under a lucky star, with my boys.”
Billy had moved even closer. In the distance, Maisie heard the main gate open, and the crunch of tires as Stratton’s Invicta motor car made its way to the front of the house. Another vehicle followed, presumably the van that would transport Mrs. Willis. She motioned to Billy to stand by the door, ready to prevent a noisy entrance by the police
“Well, first Tony went to work at Waite’s, then Ernie went, and Will last.” Mrs. Willis brought her gaze back to Maisie. “Mr. Waite liked having families work for the company, said it was good for morale for sons to learn from their fathers. He was doing the same thing, with young Joseph.” She stared silently
“Go on.” Maisie could hear voices in the corridor, which then subsided as Billy met the police. When Billy, Stratton, and a newly-minted woman police constable stepped into the room, Maisie raised her hand to stop them. Mrs. Willis continued her story, oblivious to the new arrivals.
“Then one day Tony came off his shift, very down at heart. Not like himself. Ernie and Will came home, didn’t say much. Went straight upstairs. I could hear the three of them talking, but I thought something had happened in the warehouse, you know, a bit of trouble, something like that. Frederick wasn’t there that day, he’d gone to the abattoir. Mr. Waite liked one of his master butchers to go there, to check up, to make sure work was being done to the highest standards.”
Mrs. Willis paused. Maisie’s eyes met Stratton’s. He was prepared to wait.
“You know, I can’t say as I know quite what happened next. It was as if one minute there we were, going along nicely, this lovely little family. We weren’t well-off, not by any means, but we got by with a bit of room to spare, ’specially now that the boys were bringing something home. Then it all changed. Tony and Ernie came home the next day—they’d been very quiet—and they’d joined up. Enlisted! Their father and me, we just couldn’t believe it. Everything crumbled, my house crumbled. Frederick said that he couldn’t have his boys joining up without him to look after them. He was still a young man, really. Not even forty. He was too old on paper, but the enlisting office wasn’t that picky, as long as you were a fit man. Joined up with them, he did, and of course, they were together with all the other men and boys who’d enlisted from Waite’s.” Mrs. Willis looked up into Maisie’s eyes again. “And do you know, the thing was that I still didn’t know then what had caused it all, what had made them run off and do it. Frederick said it was that being a soldier made them feel big, that they were still so wet behind the ears, they didn’t know what it was really all about. I don’t think any of us did.”
Mrs. Willis fell silent. The WPC moved toward Mrs. Willis, but Stratton placed a hand on her arm.
“It was Will that told us. Mind you, word had already started to go around, about the Waite girl and those friends of hers with their little white feathers. Stupid, stupid, stupid girls.” She balled her fists and pounded her knees. Tears began to flow again as she spoke. “Frederick told Will—I can see him now, standing in the doorway on the day they left, all in uniform, a little family army marching off to war—‘You look after your mother, my boy. You stay here and do the work for me and your brothers.’” She placed a hand on her chest. “But the silly little beggar wouldn’t listen. Too young by half, he was, too young by half. He had to go and join up, didn’t he? Said that no one called the Willis men cowards, that if his dad and brothers were over there, then he’d go too. Oh, I wish his father had been there to stop him. ‘You’ll be all right, Mum, Mr. Waite will look after you, all the families will be all right. Then we’ll all be home again before you know it.’ But they weren’t. Even Will, he might have come home in body, but he never came home to me again, not as my Will.” Mrs. Willis slumped forward, crying into her hands. Maisie moved to her side. “I lost them all, I lost them because of those wicked, wicked girls. And . . . and . . . I just couldn’t bear it anymore. I just couldn’t bear the . . . the . . . ache. . . .”
Maisie was aware of the silence of the group watching, but did not look back. She placed a comforting arm around Mrs. Willis.
“It was like a knife through my heart,” the woman sobbed. “The man came with the telegram, and at first I couldn’t do a thing. I couldn’t hear, couldn’t even breathe. I just stood there like I’d been frozen.” Mrs. Willis pressed her hand to her heart. “The man said, ‘I’m sorry, love’ and there I was, completely alone. I was in a daze, a terrible daze, with this flimsy piece of paper in my hand, wondering, Which one? Which one? Then the knife went in, right there. And it happened three times; three times I was stabbed, and then again when I saw the state Will was brought home in. And the pain hasn’t stopped since . . . right here, right here. . . .” The woman pounded her chest and struggled for breath.
Maisie closed her eyes and remembered the last three names commemorated in hand-made tiles above the door of Joseph Waite’s shop on Oxford Street: Frederick Willis, Anthony Frederick Willis, Ernest James Willis. She spoke softly, yet took care to ensure that Stratton could hear all that was said.
“Is that why an overdose of morphine wasn’t enough?”
Mrs. Willis nodded. “I drugged them first. I wanted them to hear, before they died. I didn’t want them to walk away or ask me to leave. I wanted them to die as they listened to me tell them about my boys. I wanted them to know why, and I wanted it to be the last thing they heard on this earth. God only knows what my boys heard.”
“And then you left the white feathers behind?”
“Yes. I left them behind. If their spirits lingered, I wanted them to linger in torment. I wanted them to be reminded. I wanted them to suffer as my boys suffered, as all those boys suffered, and as their people at home suffered. I wanted them to be between this world and the next, never at peace. Never, ever at rest.” Exhausted, Mrs. Willis leaned into Maisie’s arms and wept.
As Maisie held the grieving woman to her, she lifted her head and motioned for Stratton and the WPC. Passing the weight as gently as one would hand a new baby back to its mother, Maisie allowed the WPC and Stratton to help Mrs. Willis to her feet. As Maisie joined Billy, she noticed moisture in his eyes. She touched his arm.
“S’awright, Miss. I’m awright.”
Mrs. Willis mustered the strength to stand tall while Stratton formally cautioned her and as the three moved toward the door, she stopped in front of Maisie.
“Would you look in on my Will, Miss Dobbs? He won’t even know I’m not there. I think my visiting is just for my sake, really. But I’d like to
know that someone is looking out for him every now and again.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll visit, Mrs. Willis.”
“Me, too. I’ll go, too,” added Billy.
Two constables stationed outside the door accompanied Mrs. Willis and the WPC to the idling vehicles. At the far end of the corridor, a cadre of staff waited, all of whom reached out to touch Mrs. Willis as she passed. Two more constables waited for orders to secure the crime scene.
“I owe you an apology, Miss Dobbs,” said Stratton.
“I think the apology must go to Magnus Fisher. And perhaps to John Sedgewick.” Stratton nodded, and for a moment neither knew quite what to say.
“And once again, I must offer my congratulations. I’ll also have to ask you to come down to the Yard to make a formal statement.”
“Of course.”
“And you, too, Mr. Beale.”
“Right you are, Detective Inspector. Oh, and by the way . . .” Billy reached over to the fire irons and took out the bayonet. “Couldn’t think of where else to put it. But like I mentioned to you before, Miss, my old mum always said that it was ’ardest to find something ’idden in plain view.”
CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE
Billy was loath to leave his family, and Maisie despaired of ever getting him to Chelstone. But he finally acquiesced, and on the first Monday in May, Maisie parked the MG at Charing Cross station and accompanied him to the platform.
“Thanks for bringing me to the station, Miss. Don’t think I would have left Doreen and the nippers if you ’adn’t.”
“It won’t be long until you see them again, Billy. And it’s for the best.”
Billy pulled change from his pocket to buy a newspaper. “Look at this, Miss.” Billy pointed to the front page, “I dunno, there’s this young lady, Amy Johnson, flying off to Australia on ’er own—twenty-six she is—and goin’ in a little aeroplane, if you please. And here I am, scared of going down to Kent on the train.”
Birds of a Feather Page 30
