Birds of a Feather

had said the maid left the house on an errand after bringing tea, so he had seen himself out. Had Lydia poured another cup of tea in an effort to regain sobriety in the face of an unexpected caller? How had the visitor found an opportunity to introduce a narcotic into the tea? Had the caller seen that Lydia was intoxicated and offered to make fresh tea? Tea that could so easily be laced with poison? And could more of the drug have been administered while Lydia’s muscles began to spasm after the first few sips? So many questions spun through Maisie’s mind and the one person who could answer them was decidedly not available for questioning. Or was she?

Maisie wondered how she might gain access to Lydia Fisher’s home once more. She wanted to know how Lydia Fisher lived and what had caused her grief, because of one thing she was sure: Lydia Fisher had grieved.

While she walked, Maisie remembered feeling a prickling of the skin on her neck while she stood in the upstairs hallway of Lydia Fisher’s house, outside the room where her body lay. She had not shied away from the sensation but had instead silently asked, What is it you want me to see? Never before at the scene of a crime had Maisie had felt such a duality of sensation, like a fabric that on one side is smooth and satinlike but on the other, rough with a raised pile. She knew that the last person who had come to the house came with a terrible burden. A burden that was no lighter for having taken Lydia Fisher’s life.

Maisie walked quickly toward Victoria underground station. She planned to return to her office as quickly as possible. She would leave a message for Billy to the effect that she would be back at five o’clock. Not a moment was to be lost in the search for Charlotte Waite. If the Coulsden victim, Philippa Sedgewick, had been Charlotte’s friend, as was Lydia Fisher, then Charlotte must be found. One dead friend was a tragedy. Two dead friends . . . a terrifying coincidence.

Just as Maisie reached Victoria, the black car she had already seen once that day drew alongside her. The door opened, and Detective Inspector Richard Stratton emerged and tipped his hat.

“Miss Dobbs, I thought I might find you on your way to the station. I noticed that you didn’t have your little red motor with you today. Look—you’ve had a horrible time this morning—would you care to join me for a quick cup of tea?”

Maisie looked at her watch. Lunchtime had passed and she had hardly noticed. “Yes, I do have time—just—but I must be back at my office by five.”

“I would be delighted to escort you there in the motor car. Let’s just nip across the road.” Stratton indicated a small teashop, and Maisie inclined her head in agreement.

Stratton took Maisie lightly by the elbow to steer her through the sparse traffic. Maisie knew he would likely be less solicitous when he questioned her again formally.

A waitress directed them to a corner table.

“Miss Dobbs, I’m curious about the fact that you visited Mrs. Fisher today of all days. Is there anything else you can tell me about your presence at the scene?”

“I’ve told you all I can, I believe. The victim was once a friend of the young woman I am seeking on behalf of a client. I thought she might be able to assist me.”

The waitress returned with a tray and proceeded to set a white china teapot on the table, followed by a hot- water jug, sugar bowl, milk jug, and two matching white china teacups and saucers. She bobbed a curtsey and left the table, returning a moment later with a plate containing sliced Hovis bread with butter and jam, several iced fancy-cakes and two Eccles cakes.

“Hmmm. Interesting. Mind you, this woman had lots of friends.”

“Perhaps mere acquaintances, Inspector.”

“Yes, possibly.” Stratton looked thoughtful as Maisie began to pour tea.

“So you put the milk in after the tea,” said Stratton.

“The old London way, Inspector Stratton: Never put the milk in first because you might waste some. If you put it in last, you can tell exactly how much you really need.” Maisie handed the cup of tea to Stratton, pushed the sugar bowl toward him, and filled her own cup.

As Stratton lifted the hot tea to his lips, Maisie pressed ahead with her own question. “I take it you agree that the murder at Cheyne Mews is linked to the Coulsden murder, Inspector?”

Stratton set his cup on the saucer so fiercely, the sound caused several people to look in their direction.

“Inspector, it really doesn’t take much in the way of deduction.” Maisie spoke softly.

Stratton regarded Maisie before answering. “In confidence . . .”

“Of course.”

Stratton continued, “The scene was very much the same as the Coulsden murder, with very little bloodshed given the extent of the attack. Spilsbury suspects ingestion of a narcotic, most likely morphine, prior to an assault with a more violent weapon. The same method was used with the Coulsden victim. The body was cold, and rigor had set in.”

“Has Spilsbury indicated the time of death yet?”

“Informally he confirmed it was yesterday, either in the late afternoon or in the evening. I’ll have to wait until he submits his detailed report. He’s usually more definite even at the scene of the murder. Apparently Lydia Fisher dismissed the maid after being served tea yesterday and neither she or the cook had seen her since. But according to the staff, that wasn’t unusual. She was frequently known to go out at night without first requesting the assistance of her maid. And she often took to her rooms for several days on end, demanding not to be disturbed and furious if she was. The murderer could have locked the door to the room behind him, let himself out, and no one the wiser for hours. The cook said that the previous maid wouldn’t turn a hair if Mrs. Fisher remained in her rooms for two or three days. If you hadn’t arrived at the house and found the young maid in tears, the body could have lain there for a long time. The cook would have come along, told her not to fuss, and that would have been that.”

“Thank heavens I called to see her.”

“There’s something else. The maid went out after tea on Wednesday, which the victim took with a man of about thirty to thirty-five. By the way, Miss Dobbs, I must underline again the need for absolute confidence.” Stratton sipped his tea and looked at Maisie intently.

“Of course, Inspector.” Maisie wanted Stratton to continue.