Birds of a Feather

“Are you getting much work, Mrs. Beale?” said Maisie, knowing that the income of a dressmaker was directly affected by the amount of money in people’s pockets.

“Not as much as I was getting, but the jobs trickle in. And people do still appreciate fine work.”

“Good. Now then, would you like to splash some cold water on your cheeks? I’ll keep an eye on the children while you nip along the landing to the lavatory. There’s a basin in there, and I put a fresh towel on the hook this morning.”

When she returned, Bobby was still very deliberately using the pencils to draw a train, and Maisie was standing by the table with the baby’s head nestled into the curve of her neck. Doreen Beale collected her children and left the office. Maisie watched as she made her way toward Warren Street, pushing the pram with Lizzie asleep under a blanket and Bobby perched on the end, his stubby fingers clasped around the handlebar. And as she turned away, knowing that she now had to hurry to keep her appointment with Charlotte’s milliner, Maisie touched the place on her neck where she could still feel the soft downy head of Lizzie Beale.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Maisie suspected that Billy’s interview with Stratton had been draining—especially now that she knew that Billy had not returned home immediately upon leaving the office on the evening that Lydia Fisher had been killed. Though Maisie could not believe that Billy had returned to Cheyne Mews, in light of the underhand transaction she had witnessed between Billy and another man on Wednesday outside the Prince of Wales pub on Warren Street, she was concerned.

The interview with Stratton and Caldwell at Scotland Yard had been a long one, and as soon as Billy arrived back at Fitzroy Square, they set off for the appointment with Joseph Waite at his home in Dulwich. On the way, Maisie hoped to discuss their position regarding the search for Charlotte Waite, and for Billy to recount details of the interview, but Billy seemed to have slipped into an abyss of fatigue. He stared out of the passenger window, offering none of the usual commentary upon the people he saw going about their daily business as the MG sped by, nor did he offer conversation peppered with quips and puns.

“I expect you’re a bit tired after this morning’s meeting with Stratton, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no. Just thinking, Miss, just thinking.”

“What about, Billy? Is there a matter of some concern to you?” Maisie was watchful as she spoke, both of the traffic and of Billy’s demeanor.

Billy folded his arms, as if against the cold. “I’ve just been thinking about them two women, you know, Miss Waite and Mrs. Fisher. Like two peas in a pod, they were.”

“What do you mean?”

“They both seemed, you know, sort of cut off. I mean, they went out and all—well, at least they did before Miss Waite got all quiet. Right pair of social butterflies they were, but when all’s said and done, they weren’t, you know . . .” Billy crinkled his eyes as he searched for the right descriptive word. “Connected. That’s it, they weren’t connected. You know, not like, say, me, f ’r instance. I mean, I’m connected to me wife and the nippers. People are connected to them they love, and who loves them back. You can feel it when you walk into a room, can’t you, Miss?” Billy looked at Maisie for the first time since they had set out. “You know, you see photographs on the dresser, and all sorts of bits and bobs lying around that they’ve been given. And there’s comfort, in’t there? O’ course, my wife would call it clutter, but you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do, Billy.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Now, like I said earlier, when I spoke to my mate, you know, the one who works for the Express, well, he told me that the word is—and you know they can’t print this sort of thing—that the Coulsden woman, Philippa Sedgewick, was seeing a gentleman who was married to someone else.”

“Will your friend keep you in mind when he gets some more information?”

Billy gave a half-laugh. “Well, ’e’s a bit of a new friend, ain’t ’e, Miss. You remember, you said I ’ad to make me own connections wiv them what could give me information? This one only took a pint or two down the Prince of Wales on Wednesday after work, and ’e was singing like a nightingale.”

“Wednesday night? Weren’t you going to try to get home early before the children went to bed?”

“Got to strike while the iron’s ’ot, ’aven’t you, Miss? Saw ’im going in for a swift one as I was walkin’ past, and thought I’d take advantage of the situation, as you might say. Certainly worked, didn’t it?”

“Well, we’ll talk about it all a bit more after meeting with Waite. I can’t say I’m looking forward to this.”

“Me neither, Miss. Now then, mind you point your nose out!”

Harris, Waite’s butler, had obviously recovered from his illness and welcomed them into the spacious hallway, whereupon he pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket.

“Four minutes to three. I will show you into the library, where Mr. Waite will join you at three on the dot.”

Harris led the way to the library, ensured that they were seated comfortably, and left the room. Maisie and Billy had been alone for barely a moment when the door swung open. Waite strode into the room, pulled out his chair before Billy could stand respectfully. He sat down with a heavy thud and checked his watch.

“Ten minutes, Miss Dobbs. Now then, it’s been four days since I gave you the job of finding my daughter. Where’s Charlotte?”

Maisie breathed deeply and spoke in a level tone. “I believe she may be in Kent, Mr. Waite, though I cannot yet positively confirm the location of her refuge.”

“Refuge? And what does my daughter need with a refuge?”

“May I speak frankly, Mr. Waite?”

The heavy-set man leaned back, folding his arms in front of his chest. Maisie wondered if he knew how quickly he gave himself away. With that one move, he was effectively telling her that her frankness was not welcome.

“I suspect that fear was at the heart of your daughter’s departure from your house.”

Waite moved forward in his chair. “Fear? What’s she got to be—”