Birds of a Feather

exotic overseas locale. Maisie knocked sharply.

“Mrs. Fisher. Are you awake? Mrs. Fisher!” Her voice was loud and clear, yet there was no answer. She tried opening the door, which was locked. Maisie knew that it was crucial that she gain entrance to the room.

“She may be indisposed, especially if she overindulged. I’ll need to get into the room. Go downstairs and prepare a glass of water with liver salts for her.”

The maid hurried downstairs. Maisie shook her head: She’s so new she hasn’t even asked my name.

Opening her document case, Maisie reached for a cloth bag with a drawstring top that contained several implements, similar to fishermen’s needles, of varying size. She selected one. That should do it. She knelt, inserted the sharp point into the keyhole and manipulated the lock. Yes! Maisie stood up, closed her eyes for just a second to control the images rushing into her mind’s eye, and opened the door.

Lydia Fisher’s body lay on the floor between an elegant pale blue chaise longue and an overturned side table, the contents of a tea tray strewn across an Aubusson rug. Maisie was never shocked upon encountering a scene of death. Not since the war. She automatically reached under the woman’s left ear with her fingertips, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. No sign of life. Mrs. Fisher was dressed for an afternoon out. It appeared that she had not changed her clothes after arriving home yesterday.

The corridor floor creaked as the maid returned. Maisie moved quickly to the door to prevent the high-strung young woman from seeing into the room. She stopped her just in time.

“You must do exactly as I say. Telephone Scotland Yard. Ask to speak with Detective Inspector Stratton and no one else. Say that you are acting on the instructions of Miss Maisie Dobbs and that he is to come to this address immediately.”

“Is Mrs. Fisher all right, M’um?”

“Just do as I say—now! When you’ve done that, come back to the room only if there is to be a delay or if you have not been able to speak personally to Inspector Stratton. When the police arrive, direct them to me straightaway.”

Maisie estimated that she would have twenty minutes or so alone in the room. Not as much as she would have liked, but enough. Again she brought out the drawstring bag. She pulled out a folded pair of rubber gloves that were at least one size too small and pulled them onto her hands, pressing down between each finger for a snug fit. She turned to the body of Lydia Fisher.

The woman’s clothing had been torn many times, though there was little blood from the multiple knife wounds to her chest. Kneeling, Maisie looked closely at each burnt umber-rimmed wound, taking care not to disturb the fabric of the victim’s clothing or the position of her body. Next she turned her attention to the terror-filled dead eyes, then to the purple lips and mouth, and the fingers. Ten minutes.

The teapot had been smashed, but some of the dregs were caught in part of its base. Maisie reached into the drawstring bag and took out a small utensil similar to a salt spoon. She dipped it into the liquid and tasted. Then she moved closer and sniffed. Next she turned her attention to the room. Little time remained. Apparently Lydia Fisher had been killed while taking tea with a guest. Maisie suspected that the disarray in the room had been caused by Lydia herself. She walked around the body, noting the position of the chaise and of other furniture that had been disturbed. Ornaments had fallen from another side table, bottles had been knocked from the cocktail cabinet. Maisie nodded: morphine. The narcotic would have caused intense muscle spasms and hallucinations before death. The killer would have watched, perhaps avoiding ever weaker lunges by the victim for fifteen minutes or so before death occurred. And once Fisher was dead, the murderer, who had watched the woman die, had taken another portion of revenge with a knife. Five minutes.

Maisie closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to get a sense of what energies the events of the last twenty-four hours had left in their wake. Though death had surely accompanied him, Maisie felt that the visitor had been known to Lydia Fisher. Maisie had been to murder scenes on many occasions and had immediately felt the frenzy of attack. Fear, and hatred, the emotions that led to such a terrible outcome lingered and caused a constellation of violent jagged colors to blur her vision temporarily, as they had done this morning when she stood outside Lydia Fisher’s carved door. One more minute.

Two motor cars screeched to a halt outside. Maisie deftly removed her gloves and returned them to the cloth bag, which she slipped into her case before moving to a position outside the door to wait for Stratton. She took one last look at Lydia Fisher’s body and the terrible fear etched in the woman’s wide-open eyes.

Maisie heard the maid answer the door, which was quickly followed by an introduction lacking any pleasantries by Stratton, and a terse “Good morning” from his sergeant, Caldwell. The maid informed them that Miss Dobbs was waiting upstairs.

Maisie greeted Stratton and Caldwell and led them into Lydia’s drawing room.

“I came to the house hoping to meet with Mrs. Fisher in connection with an assignment. The maid was distressed that Mrs. Fisher had not answered her knock. She’s new and I think somewhat intimidated by her employer. I informed her that I had been a nurse, and had her bring me here.”

“Hmmm.” Stratton, kneeling by the body, turned to Caldwell, who was inspecting the disarray in the room.

“Looks like she fought off the murderer, sir. Probably a big bloke, I’d say, what with all this mess.”

Stratton met Maisie’s eyes briefly. “I’ll need the murder bag, Caldwell. And try to get hold of Sir Bernard Spilsbury. If you can’t get him, then call out the duty man. Secure the property and place a cordon around the area.”

Caldwell regarded Maisie with a smirk. “Will you be needing me when you question Miss Dobbs here, sir?”

Stratton sighed. “I will question Miss Dobbs later. This woman was murdered yesterday, probably late afternoon—as Miss Dobbs already knows.” He glanced at Maisie. “For now I want to ensure that the body is inspected and removed for postmortem before the newspapermen arrive. And I have no doubt they’ll arrive soon.”

Maisie was asked to wait in the ground-floor reception room, where she was later questioned by Stratton, accompanied by Caldwell. Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the famous pathologist, arrived and Maisie was permitted to leave, though she knew there would be more questioning to come. As she departed the house she heard Caldwell voice his unsolicited opinion: “Well, sir, if you ask me, it’s her old man. Nearly always is. Mind you, could be she had one on the side, woman like that, all furs and a big car of her own to gad about in. Who knows what she brought home!”

Maisie knew very well who Lydia Fisher had brought home yesterday afternoon. But who might have visited soon after—perhaps soon enough for the tea still to be warm in the pot? Had she answered the door herself? Billy