Birds of a Feather (26 page)

M
aisie made her way along Charlotte Street toward Schmidt’s.

The day was once again changeable and brisk, so she wore her mackintosh over the new black dress. She had changed three times before leaving the house this morning, considering not only lunch with Detective Inspector Stratton but the meeting that afternoon with Joseph Waite. As she dressed she was aware of feeling in her stomach and legs that she attributed to anxiety. Though she looked forward to seeing Stratton, she was disappointed at the peremptory way in which he had brought the case of the murdered women to a close. She felt that a grave error had been made. Was this the source of the physical sensations that seemed to render her temporarily dizzy on two occasions before she left the house?

Now, as she walked along the gray flagstones, heat seemed to rise up through her body. She felt faint. She quickly turned into a side street and leaned against a brick wall for support. As she breathed deeply, her eyes closed, Maisie hoped that no one attempted to inquire after her health, or to assist her.
I feel as if my foundations have been rocked,
thought Maisie. She opened her eyes and gasped, for it seemed that her surroundings
had
changed, although they remained the same. As she tried to focus her gaze, it was as if she were looking at a picture that had been hung incorrectly, a picture that she could not quite set straight. Up a bit . . . no, down a bit . . . to the left . . . too much, just a hair right . . . And as she continued to look, the picture changed, and now she saw the Groom’s Cottage at Chelstone. Then it vanished.

Regaining her composure, Maisie stood away from the wall, keeping one hand outstretched, touching the bricks. As confidence in her stability returned, she walked slowly into Charlotte Street. Maisie brushed off the interlude, telling herself that it served her right for skipping breakfast. Frankie Dobbs would have had something to say about that! “Breakfast, my girl, is the most important meal of the day. You know what they say, Maisie: ‘Breakfast like a king, lunch like a lord, and dinner like a pauper.’ Key to bein’ as fit as a fiddle, is that.” But as she saw Stratton in the distance, waiting for her outside Schmidt’s, Maisie decided to telephone Chelstone after luncheon. Perhaps the foal had been born by now. Perhaps. . . .

M
aisie poked a fork into the rich German sausage, which was served with cabbage and potatoes.

“Miss Dobbs, I’m glad to be away from the Yard this afternoon, if only for an hour,” said Stratton. “Since news of the arrest was published in the newspapers, we’ve been deluged. Of course, I give Caldwell credit for inserting the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle.”

Maisie continued to clutch her knife and fork, but she could not eat. “Inspector Stratton, I think you—and Sergeant Caldwell—are mistaken.”

Stratton leaned back in his chair. “Miss Dobbs, I know that you have certain skills in this field.”

“Thank you, Inspector. It’s just that”—Maisie set down her cutlery onto her plate—“I think there has been a rush to judgment.”

Stratton straightened his tie. “Look, if you’ve evidence that I am not aware of . . . ?”

Maisie considered the white linen handkerchief and asked herself whether the delicate items held within could be termed “evidence.” But evidence of what? She had made an assessment of Fisher’s character based on a single interview, of Philippa Sedgewick’s on the word of her husband. The police case against Fisher was based on concrete fact.

“No, Inspector. I have nothing tangible.”

Stratton sighed. “I respect your work, Miss. Dobbs. But we are all wrong at times, and this time the evidence points to Fisher. Even if he were not having an affair with the Sedgewick woman, and his communication with her
was
regarding his wife as he claims, he had been seen with her on several occasions. We believe that the Sedgewick woman knew he was after his wife’s money so she represented a risk to him. And we know, Miss Dobbs, that the mind of the killer may not be rooted in reality. They think they can get away with it. In Fisher’s case he knew what he wanted—ultimately the money— and he thought he could take it once his wife was dead, and then leave the country.”

“But the method—”

Stratton raised his right hand before taking up his knife again.

“Fisher has no shortage of tools, in view of his work, which seems to be something between archaeologist, raconteur and inveterate gambler. He was always in debt to someone somewhere, and Mrs. Fisher was an heiress. He stood to inherit the lot at her death.”

“Has Spilsbury positively identified the weapon?”

Stratton cut into the thick sausage on his plate and speared a piece on his fork, along with some red cabbage.

“Yes. The bayonet from a short-barrel Lee Enfield rifle. Standard issue in the war. And—surprise, surprise—something that Fisher kept among the tools I just mentioned. Bit of a cheek, considering he was nowhere near the battlefield. Of course his story is that he has several items that are not usually employed by archaeologists, but he uses them for the
ooh-ahh
effect from the audience of fearless travelers that accompany him. According to Fisher, poking around a pile of old bones in the sand with the tip of a bayonet keeps the intrepid followers happy and gives them something to talk about at the dinner table when they get back to Britain. The evidence against him is strong. I’m sure we will have a confession soon.”

Maisie, who had barely touched her food, could not face another bite. “Inspector, I have the impression that you are more than usually intent on securing a conviction.”

Stratton tried not to reveal his exasperation.

“The man killed his wife, Miss Dobbs. And he killed another man’s wife. He is a murderer, and he should hang for it!”

Maisie wondered if he was allowing his personal history to affect the outcome of this case. After all, Stratton, like John Sedgewick, was a man who had lost his wife.

Stratton settled the bill.

“Thank you for lunch, Inspector Stratton.”

“You are most welcome, Miss Dobbs. Indeed, I hope you are successful, though I do wish you would try to avoid becoming involved in investigations that should have been referred to the police.”

“That is my client’s choice. It seems to me that such involvement would have represented a waste of police time.”

Stratton ran his fingers around the brim of his hat before placing it on his head. “Perhaps we could meet again for lunch, or supper?”

“When we have both completed work on our respective cases, Inspector, certainly.”

Stratton tipped his hat. “Until then, Miss Dobbs.”

Maise smiled and inclined her head. “Until then, Inspector.” She made one last effort. “Inspector, I urge you to go back over the evidence that has led to Fisher’s arrest. You know better than to be pressured by the public’s wish to see a suspect behind bars. More time is needed, Inspector.”

“We must agree to disagree, Miss Dobbs. Good-bye.”

As she made her way back to Fitzroy Square, Maisie admonished herself for alienating Stratton. Then, reconsidering, she drew back her shoulders, and set forth at a brisk clip. No, she thought. He’s wrong. They’ve got the wrong man. And I’ll prove it!

As Maisie lifted her head, she saw a flash of gold in the distance, over the heads that bobbed to and fro past her. It was Billy’s familiar shock of hair. He was walking—no, running— in her direction.

“Billy,” she yelled, “Walk! Don’t run! Walk!”

Still he came toward her in an ungainly stumbling lope that was more than a walk but not quite a run, as if one side of his body were intent on speed that the other simply could not match. Maisie in turn ran to him so that those observing the scene might have thought them lovers who had been separated by distance and time.

“Billy, Billy, what is it? Take a deep breath, calm down, calm down.”

Billy gasped for breath. “In ’ere, Miss. Let’s get off the street.” Billy jerked his head to the right, toward a side street.

“Right. A deep breath, Billy, a deep breath.”

Billy fought for air, his gas-damaged lungs heaving against his ribcage so that Maisie could see the steep rise and fall of his chest. He brought his chin down as if to retain more of the life-giving air that his body craved. “Miss . . . I thought I’d never find you . . . that you might’ve gone off with Stratton.”

“What’s happened, Billy? What’s happened?” As she clutched at the cloth of Billy’s overcoat, knowledge flooded Maisie. “It’s my father, isn’t it, Billy? It’s Dad?”

“Yes, Miss. Got to get you to Chelstone. ’e’s awright, comfortable, apparently.”

“What’s
happened
?”

“Miss, stop. It’s awright, awright. Listen to me. It was an accident, with the ’orse this mornin’. Word just came from Mr. Carter. The mare was ’avin’ trouble, so Mr. Dobbs ’ad set up the ropes, you know.”

“I know what they do, Billy.” Maisie was thinking clearly now, and began to walk into Charlotte Street, Billy limping behind her.

“Well, anyway, something ’appened and ’e slipped, then something else ’appened and he got knocked out cold. Rushed to the ’ospital in Pembury, ’e was, for X-rays. Bad old do at ’is age.”

“I want you to telephone the Waite residence. Cancel our appointment.”

“Miss, you ain’t thinkin’ of goin’ on yer own, are ya? Not drivin’ all that way, bein’ as you’re not—”

“Not what, Billy?” Maisie stopped, her eyes flashing at Billy. Yet as she looked at him, rivulets of perspiration oozing from his forehead and running across his cheekbones, tears sprang into the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. Thank you.”

“ ’e’ll be awright, you’ll see. Strong as ’ouses, your dad is, Miss. But I reckon I’d better come with you, Miss.”

“No, I haven’t the time to wait while you go to Whitechapel, and you can’t leave without letting your wife know.”

“She’ll be awright, Miss. I can get on the dog’n’bone to the shop up the street. They just ’ad one put in. They’ll run along to ’er wiv a message.”

Maisie shook her head. “I’m going alone. I need you here. There’s business to take care of. Have a rest, a cup of tea, and look after my business for me, Billy.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Maisie started the motor car as he closed the door for her.

“Oh, and Billy, your nose is bleeding again. And I’ll tell you now, Billy Beale, that if I ever learn that you are at that stuff again, I will box your ears for you!”

Billy watched Maisie screech into Warren Street on her way to Kent, knowing that she would push the MG to maximum speed whether on a London road or along a country lane.

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle . . .

It had been Maisie’s favorite poem as a child, when her mother would set the small, dark-haired girl on her knee, then rhythmically recite the verse, tapping her foot so that Maisie felt propelled forward by the momentum of movement, imagining that she really was in a railway carriage.

All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as the driving rain . . .

Pressing the MG as fast as it would go, Maisie sped toward Pembury. Rain was now coming down in thick icicle-like slants across the windscreen. As she moved closer to see the road, wiping condensation from the glass with the back of her hand, her heart was beating furiously against her chest. And still the poem echoed in her mind.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles . . .

And in her mind’s eye Maisie saw the small kitchen at the terraced house in Lambeth, where she had spent the years before her mother’s passing. She looked again into the kind, sparkling eyes, then over to the stove, where her father leaned against the wall while listening to his wife and his girl laughing together. So long ago; it was so long ago.

Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with a man and a load;
And here is a mill and there is a river;
Each a glimpse and gone forever!

Her mother was gone forever, Simon was gone forever. What if her father was lost, too? Maisie cried out as she whirled though Tonbridge and on toward her destination.

Swinging in through the broad driveway, Maisie saw the large brick-built hospital in front of her, the tall chimney at the far side belching smoke. She remembered passing the hospital in an earlier time, when her companion had told her that if the chimney was smoking it meant that amputated limbs were being burned. Maisie had rolled her eyes, sure that she was being teased. But now the chimney loomed over the hospital like an evil genie who would grant no wishes. She parked the motor car quickly and ran toward the main building.

“I’m looking for Mr. Francis Dobbs. He was brought in this morning, injured. Where is he?”

The uniformed porter was clearly used to dealing with the emotions of breathless relatives, but at the same time he would not be rushed.

“Let me see.” He ran his finger down a list of names. But Maisie could not wait, and snatched the clipboard, scanning the names for her father.

“Ward 2B. Where is that? Where can I find him?”

“Easy up, Miss. Visiting time’s over, you know.”The porter reclaimed his clipboard.

“Just tell me where to find him!”

“All right, all right. Keep your hair on! Now then, here you go.”

The porter stepped from his office and directed Maisie with his hand. She thanked him, then ran toward the staircase.

They must have made all these hospitals the same.
Maisie recognized the building though she had never set foot within its walls before. The tiled corridors, disinfectant-smelling staircase, long wards and iron-framed beds were all so reminiscent of the London Hospital in Whitechapel, where she had enlisted for VAD service in 1915.

She entered the cloister-like ward, with two lines of beds facing one another, not even one-eighth of an inch out of place. She knew that each day the nurses would go along the ward with a length of string and a yardstick, ensuring that all beds were positioned precisely, so that during her rounds Matron would see a ward that completely adhered to her high standards of order. Not one patient, nurse, bed, or bottle would be anywhere but where Matron expected them to be. Amid this order, as the slowly setting late-afternoon sun glanced off the ward’s cream-painted walls, Maisie searched for her father.