Birds of a Feather

“Anyway, he was of medium build, with a slight limp—possibly an old soldier—and he had hair ‘like a stook of hay,’ according to the maid. He’s our best suspect thus far, so we must identify and find him as soon as possible.”

Maisie set her cup on the saucer, wondering whether she should preempt Stratton’s discovery that Billy Beale had been an earlier visitor. She quickly decided against it. Perhaps there had been another caller whose description was similar.

“Inspector, I know you might find this somewhat irregular, but I wonder, might I revisit the room where the body was found? A woman’s insight might be helpful.”

“Well, it is most irregular, Miss Dobbs.”

Stratton looked at his watch. “I will consider it. Now then, I should ensure that you are escorted to your office.”

Maisie waited for Stratton to pull back her chair. They were met outside by Stratton’s driver, who drove them swiftly across London and, arriving at Fitzroy Square, parked the motor car on the pedestrian area outside Maisie’s office.

“Having a police car is handy at times,” said Stratton.

The driver opened the door for Stratton and Maisie to alight and, just as Stratton held out his hand to bid Maisie good-bye, Billy Beale came around the corner. He was carrying his cap. At that moment the last ray of afternoon sun caught his unruly blond hair at the same time as a rogue breeze swept across the square, giving the impression of a wayward halo around his head.

“Evenin’, Miss; evenin’, Detective Inspector Stratton.”

Stratton shook hands with Billy, who touched his forehead, nodded to Maisie, and turned toward the front door. His appearance was not lost on Stratton, who watched Billy walk up the steps, pull the sleeve of his coat down over his hand and polish Maisie’s nameplate in his customary fashion before taking out his key, unlocking the outer door, and entering the Georgian building. As he closed the door behind him, Stratton turned to face Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs, I think perhaps that there is more to discuss regarding your presence in Cheyne Mews this afternoon. However, we can do so tomorrow. I will be here at nine o’clock to collect you so that we may visit Lydia Fisher’s house together. As you said, a woman’s perspective might be of use to the police in the investigation of this crime.”

Maisie held out her hand to Stratton. “Very well, Inspector. However, I would prefer to meet you at Victoria at, say, a quarter past nine? Then we can go on from there. I have other engagements during the day, so I must be back at my office by half past ten.”

“Right you are, Miss Dobbs.” Stratton nodded, stepped into the police car, and was driven away.

CHAPTER FIVE

Maisie doubted that Stratton would seriously consider Billy Beale a suspect. They had met before and Stratton seemed both impressed by Billy’s devotion to his employer and amused by his enthusiastic approach to his new job. On the other hand, he might suspect that Maisie had gone to the house to cover up Billy’s tracks. No, the Inspector was an intelligent man, he would not seriously consider such a thing, though he would want to question Billy to eliminate him from inquiries and to extract any useful observations.

Maisie reached the top step of the first flight of stairs and lingered over a concern: Joseph Waite’s demand that the police not be notified of his daughter’s disappearance despite the possible relevance of Charlotte’s friendship with Lydia Fisher. The pursuit of the murderer might require that this information be disclosed. Maisie worried about the consequences of withholding evidence from Stratton. And she worried about something else: What if Waite was wrong? What if Charlotte had not disappeared of her own free will? What if she knew the murderer? Could she have become another victim? But then again, what if Charlotte had killed her friend—had killed two friends?

Before she could open the door to the office, it swung open and Billy stood waiting, his jacket removed and shirtsleeves rolled up, ready for work. Maisie looked at her watch.

“Billy, let’s sit down.”

Billy’s ready smile evaporated. “What’s wrong, Miss?”

“Sit down first, Billy.”

Billy became agitated, which accentuated his limp. Maisie understood, knowing that the unease of the moment would strike his leg, a point of physical vulnerability.

Maisie sat opposite him and deliberately relaxed her body to bring calm to the room and to communicate that she was in control of the situation. “Billy, this morning I went to the home of Lydia Fisher in Cheyne Mews and found her—dead.”

“Oh my Gawd!” Billy rose from the chair, half stumbling, to stand by the window. “I knew she was drinking too much.” Agitated, he ran his fingers repeatedly through his hair. “I should’ve taken away the bottle, got on the blower to you, got you over there. You would’ve known what to do. I could’ve stopped ’er, I knew she was downin’ ’em too fast, I should—”

“Billy.” Maisie left the table and stood in front of her assistant. “Lydia Fisher was murdered after you left her yesterday. There was nothing you could have done.”

“Murdered? Topped by someone?”

“Yes. The exact time of death has yet to be determined, but when I quickly examined the body, I estimated that she had lain there since early yesterday evening.”

Maisie recounted her visit to the Fisher home, finding the body, her subsequent initial questioning and the meeting with Stratton later. Billy was fearful of the police interrogation that would doubtless ensue. Maisie asked Billy to describe this meeting with Lydia Fisher again, and his departure from the mews house.

“Billy, you did a good job,” she said when he had concluded shakily. “I will explain to Detective Inspector Stratton that you were working on behalf of a concerned father, and so on. The challenge will be to keep the Waite name out of the conversation.” Maisie rubbed her neck, thought for a moment, and continued. “But the fact is, apart from the killer, you were possibly the last person to see Lydia Fisher alive.”