Birds of a Feather

“The younger Thorpes were jealous of her, no doubt about that, but to do away with her? No, they haven’t got it in them. No gumption at the best of times, that pair. Still, they did want the money and property that was left to her by her husband, even though they were very well taken care of. They quite enjoyed all the back-and-forth with solicitors. Made them feel important. Otherwise I don’t think she had an enemy. Though she must have, if her life was taken by someone else. I don’t think she’d’ve done it by accident, either. Very careful, she was, very careful. Wouldn’t even take a powder if she had a cold. Of course, there were still medicines in the house from when Mr. Thorpe was ill. For the pain. That’s what the doctor said she’d taken. An overdose of the painkillers. But I just can’t see her doing it.” Mrs. Hicks rubbed the handkerchief across her eyelids and dabbed at her nose again.

Maisie reached out and touched the housekeeper’s arm. “Would you show me where you found Mrs. Thorpe?”

Maisie stood in the light and airy room, a gentle breeze blowing curtains through sash windows that were half open. She was sorry that the death was so far in the past, for the room had doubtless been cleaned several times since Mrs. Hicks found the body of Rosamund Thorpe, as she had shown Maisie, lying between the small table set for tea and the settee placed at an angle to the window, offering views across the rooftops to the East Hill and out toward the Channel.

“Mrs. Hicks, I know this may sound a little unusual, but would you mind if I spent a few moments in the room alone?”

“Of course, Miss Dobbs. Has a funny feel about it, this room, doesn’t it? Can’t put a finger on it myself, but it was always there, even before she died.” Mrs. Hicks dabbed at her eyes. “I’ll just be outside if you need me.”

Maisie closed her eyes. She stood perfectly still and allowed her senses to mingle with the aura of Rosamund Thorpe that still lingered in her room. Her skin prickled with sensation, as if someone had stood next to her and touched her lightly on the arm, to share a confidence, to say, “I am here, and this is my confession.” She opened her mind to the secrets held within the walls and recognized the familiar presence of a troubled soul, kindred spirit to the veils of emotion left behind by Charlotte Waite and Lydia Fisher. She suspected already that Philippa Sedgewick had been equally troubled. Four unsettled women. But what could be at the heart of their disquiet?

As she breathed deeply and silently, Maisie framed a question in her mind: What can you tell me? It was immediately answered with a picture in Maisie’s mind’s eye, an image that began as a simple outline, gaining form and texture as if it were a photograph set in a tray of developing solution. Yes, she could see it. She hoped Mrs. Hicks might be able to offer an explanation, and summoned the housekeeper.

Mrs. Hicks poked her head around the door before entering. “All done, Miss?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The housekeeper led the way downstairs, and opened the front door for Maisie.

“I wonder, Mrs. Hicks, if I might ask one more question.”

“Of course, Miss. Anything I can do to help.”

“Do you know what medicines Mr. Thorpe was prescribed by his doctor?” asked Maisie.

“Well, I do know that there were different mixtures and tablets. Mrs. Thorpe was most particular to measure them out in the morning, putting them in little saucers. He had pills breakfast, lunch, supper, and bedtime. But at the end, you know, the doctor prescribed morphine. Mrs. Thorpe was very upset about it. She said you know there’s no hope when they start giving a patient morphine, because it means there’s nothing more they can do to save a life. All they can do is stop the pain.”

Maisie loved to drive the motor car, whether weaving in and out of traffic in London—which was always a challenge given the noisy mixture of motor lorries, cars large and small, and horse-drawn delivery vans carrying groceries and beer—or meandering along country roads with only her thoughts for company. She found it easy to think in the car, turning over facts and ideas as she changed gear, or slowed down for a farmer moving sheep from one field to another.

Conversations were replayed, possibilities for action assessed and considered, and all manner of outcomes pictured in her mind’s eye. Sometimes another driver might stop alongside the MG in slow traffic, look across at the young woman in the fast car with the cloth top down, and see her speaking to herself, her mouth opening and closing as she asked a question. Then, hearing the words aloud, she would nod.

She was driving across Kent to Romney Marsh. Dame Constance Charteris, Abbess of Camden Abbey, expected her at ten o’clock on the dot. She had left her father’s cottage at Chelstone just after eight, allowing more time than was required for the journey because she wanted to think, to run through yesterday evening’s conversations with Maurice and Lady Rowan, as well as to recollect the time spent with her father.

Maurice had quickly stepped forward to help Billy Beale, assisted by Dr. Andrew Dene who, it seems, had been busy with his telephone again, speaking to Maurice after his meeting with Maisie to offer support in Billy’s recovery. Billy could not be admitted as an in-patient at All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital, but Andrew Dene offered to monitor his health along with his progress in overcoming a dependence on narcotics—if Billy was agreeable to leaving London. By the time Maisie had arrived back at Chelstone, it seemed that Maurice had already devised a skeleton plan, with the help of Frankie Dobbs. Billy would come to Chelstone, stay at the Groom’s Cottage with Frankie, and meet with Maurice each day to “talk.”

Maisie knew well the healing power of Maurice’s skills as a listener, when he would encourage confession with perhaps just one word, question, or comment. One word that could unlock memories and shine a bright light on a person’s soul. Maisie had learned much from Maurice, but she knew that she was too close to Billy for such conversation. In addition to his time with Maurice, Billy would become a “patient” of Gideon Brown, who would instruct Billy in new methods of moving his wounded limbs so that he might free himself of the pain that dragged at his spirit. There was only one obstacle to overcome: Billy had to agree to the plan carefully laid out without his foreknowledge. Billy had to want to end his reliance on narcotics.

“Getting Billy to Chelstone is the hardest job, Maisie. And it falls to you,” said Maurice as he tapped ash from his pipe into the fireplace.

Maisie repeated his words out loud as she drove through Brenchley and Horsmonden. As she drove on, the sun came from behind a cloud and shone across morning-bright green fields where newborn lambs ran on still-unsteady legs, and she knew that, whatever it took, she would get Billy on the road to Chelstone and recovery.

Clumps of primroses lined the hedgerows as she made her way slowly through Cranbrook and on toward Tenterden, winding through country lanes to the picture-postcard village of Appledore with its medieval cottages, thatched roofs, and climbing roses on trellises and doors. The promise of a perfect Sunday diminished as the hills flattened out and the soft undulating Weald of Kent gave way to land reclaimed from the sea, a jigsaw puzzle of fields for arable farming divided by hedges and stone walls. Maisie followed the Royal Military Canal while under a dark thunderous cloud that threatened to do its worst. She had a panoramic view across marshland where trees had grown leaning away from the wind, and small cottages and churches were dotted forlornly in an unforgiving landscape.

Maisie did not stop to pull up the roof of the MG but instead carefully wound a red woolen scarf around her neck