past six or so. He travels to and from work by either bus or the underground, though I believe he prefers to go home by train as it’s a bit quicker—from St. Pancras on the Metropolitan Line to Whitechapel. Depending upon the trains, I suppose he might not get home until seven. I doubt if he’d be out much later, Inspector, as he likes to play with his children before they go to bed.” Maisie thought for a moment, then added, “I know that occasionally he stops for a quick half pint at the Prince of Wales, but only at the end of the week.”
“I’ll have to question him, you know.”
“Yes, of course, Inspector.” Maisie looked out of the window
The car slowed to make the turn into Cheyne Mews, and drew alongside Number 9. A single police constable stood outside. Stratton made no move to leave the car but turned to Maisie again.
“Tell me again why you were coming to visit Mrs. Fisher, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie had prepared an answer to this question. “I have been clutching at straws, Inspector, and Mrs. Fisher might have been able to throw light on a case I am working on concerning a daughter who has left the home of her parents. It was a tenuous connection. I believe they were acquainted at one point and I wanted to speak with her to see if she could illuminate aspects of the girl’s character. I should add, Inspector, that the ‘girl’ is in her thirties, and has a very overbearing father.”
“And Beale?”
“He had been confirming the names and whereabouts of her acquaintances. Our subject’s connection with Mrs. Fisher had been so intermittent that we did not even know whether we had her correct address. He was checking our information when she came along and he took the opportunity to speak to her. They conversed and he left. I’ve told you the rest.”
“And the name of the woman you are looking for?”
“As I said yesterday, I have signed a contract of confidentiality. Should it be absolutely necessary to divulge the name of my client, I will do so in the interests of public safety and justice. At this stage I request your respect for my professional obligation to my client.”
Stratton frowned but nodded. “For now, Miss Dobbs, I will not press the point. We are looking for a male suspect, not a woman. However, have you any other information that might be pertinent to this case?”
“Only that Mr. Beale commented upon the alcoholic beverages that Mrs. Fisher enjoyed instead of tea.”
Stratton rubbed his chin and looked at Maisie again, “Yes, that is in line with Spilsbury’s findings.”
Maisie pulled on her gloves and took up her bag in anticipation of leaving the car. “Inspector, did Spilsbury comment upon the poison theory?”
“Oh yes,” said Stratton, reaching for the door handle. “She was definitely poisoned first. It was taken in tea—so she probably had a cup or two at some point after Beale left the house. Cuthbert is currently beavering away in his laboratory to identify the exact poison or combination of substances employed, though Sir Bernard Spilsbury has said that he suspects an opiate, probably morphia.”
“What about the knife attack?”
“She was dead when the attack took place, hence—as you saw— there was little blood at the scene. But there are some lingering questions about the knife.”
“Oh?”
“It seems that the stab wounds are very much like those inflicted by a bayonet. But you know Sir Bernard. We can expect a very precise description of the weapon soon.”
Maisie drew breath quickly and asked one more question as Stratton opened the door for her. “And has he confirmed a connection to the Coulsden case?”
Stratton took her hand as she stepped from the motor car. “The means of murder is identical.”
“Spoiled a nice piece of carpet, didn’t he?” Stratton was looking out of the drawing room window to the street below.
Flippant comments were not unusual among those whose job it was to investigate the aftermath of violent crime. Maurice had told Maisie long ago that it was part of the unconscious effort to bring some normalcy to that which is far from usual. But it was the first time she had heard an Aubusson rug being referred to as a “nice piece of carpet.”
“Inspector, may I have some time alone in the room, please?”
He paused, then shrugged before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. Though he had never liaised professionally with Maurice Blanche, he had heard of his methods from colleagues who had worked with the man, and knew his “strange” ways often led to a quick solution of the crime in question. Blanche’s former assistant was indubitably using procedures learned from her employer. The room had been thoroughly investigated, so there was no risk to evidence. And Stratton knew that, had she wanted, Maisie Dobbs could have altered or removed evidence when she first found the corpse.
Maisie walked slowly around the room, touching the personal belongings of Lydia Fisher, and again she was assailed by the sense that this was a lonely woman. That she had yearned for conversation rather than talk; for heartfelt passion, not indulgence; and that she had ached for the intimate connection that came with true friendship rather than from a cadre of society sycophants.
She took careful stock of the contents of the drawing room: Pale blue velvet curtains, the deeper lapis blue chaise with pale blue piping, an oak writing table in the art nouveau style, a set of side tables, now properly nested rather than tipped over, a mirror shaped like a huge butterfly on one wall, and a modernist painting on the other. The drinks cabinet in the corner to the right of the window had been “dusted” by the police, and there was a gramophone in the opposite corner. It had been a pleasing, airy room. But it was the room of a person who lived alone, not a married woman.
She walked over to the chaise, knelt by the umber stain on the rug, and touched the place where Lydia Fisher had fallen. Maisie closed her eyes and breathed deeply, all the time keeping a light touch upon the place where the dead woman’s blood had spilled grudgingly onto the carpet. As she did so a cold, clammy air seemed to descend and envelop her. The sensation was not unexpected, and she knew it would come as she reached out to the past in search of a reason, a word, a clue. Anything that would tell her why Lydia Fisher had died. Anything that might tell her why there was something so recognizable in a room she had never entered before coming to visit Mrs. Fisher yesterday.
