we rented a flat for a couple of years, and when these houses were built in 1923, we snapped one up straightaway. Philippa had a small legacy from her father and I had my savings and some funds in a trust, so it wasn’t a stretch.” Sedgewick became silent and breathed deeply before continuing. “Of course, you buy a house like this for a family, but we were not to be blessed with children.” He stopped to address Maisie directly. “Heavens above, this must be far from what you want to hear, Miss Dobbs! I’m sorry.”
“Please continue Mr. . . . John. Please tell me about your wife.”
“Well, she was barren. Not her fault, of course. And the doctors weren’t much help, said there was nothing they could do. The first one, a gray-haired doddery old duffer, said that it was nothing that a couple of glasses of sherry each wouldn’t cure. The blithering idiot!”
“I am so sorry, John.”
“Anyway, we just sort of accepted that we were to remain a family of two. In fact, just before . . . just before the end. . . .” Sedgewick closed his eyes against images that now rushed forth, images that Maisie knew to be of his dead wife. Again he breathed deeply to combat his emotions. “Just before the end, we had planned to buy a puppy. Thought it would be company for her while I was at work. Mind you, she kept busy—reading to children at the local school one afternoon a week, that sort of thing—and she loved her garden. Trouble was, she blamed herself.”
“Blamed herself?” Maisie watched him closely.
“Yes. For being barren. Said that you reap what you sow.”
“Did she ever say what she meant?”
“Never. I just thought that she had dredged up every bad thing she’d ever done and heaped it on herself.” Sedgewick shrugged. “She was a good girl, my Pippin.”
Maisie leaned toward Sedgewick, just close enough for him to feel warmer and, subconsciously, more at ease.
“Can you tell me if your wife was troubled about anything else? Had there been any discord between her and any other person?”
“Pippin was not one to gush all over other people, or rush over to natter with the neighbors. But she was kind and thoughtful, knew if someone needed help and always passed the time of day if she saw someone she knew on the street. But . . . did you say ‘ever,’ Miss Dobbs?”
“I know that might be a tall assignment, John.”
“You know, I think she only ever walked out with one man before we met. She was shy with men. It was during the war, and she was quite young really, only seventeen or so, if that. If I remember correctly, she’d met him when she was in Switzerland. He was one of several young men paying attention to Pippin and her group, in fact, he courted all of them at some point. He ended up marrying one of her friends, who, I think, had nothing but trouble with him. Bit of a ladies’ man, he was.” Suddenly Sedgewick frowned, “You know, funny that should come to mind, because he was back in touch with her, I don’t know, must have been toward the end of last year. I’d all but forgotten about it.”
“Who was the man, and why had he made contact again? Do you know?”
“I have a terrible memory for names, but his was quite unusual. Not like your average ‘John,’ you know!” Sedgewick smiled faintly. “Apparently his wife, who, as I said, was an old friend of Pippin’s, was drinking heavily. He tracked down Pippin and telephoned to see if she could help at all, speak to the wife, try to get her on the straight and narrow. But they hadn’t been in touch for years and I don’t think Pippin wanted anything to do with it. She said no, and that was that. At least as far as I know. She told me that her friend probably drank to forget. Didn’t think much about it at the time. She said, ‘Everyone’s got something to help them forget things, haven’t they? She’s got the bottle, I’ve got my garden.’ Sounds a bit harsh, but I wouldn’t have wanted her to get involved with a woman like that.”
Maisie did not want to influence Sedgewick with her suspicions. “And you are sure you can’t recall his name? What letter did it begin with?”
“Oh dear, Miss Dobbs . . . it was, um . . .” Sedgewick rubbed his brow. “Um . . . I think it was
“And his wife’s name was Lydia?”
“Yes, yes! Miss Dobbs, I do believe you knew all the time!”
“John, have you read the newspapers recently?”
“No, I can’t stand it! They always point the finger, and while Pippin is still somewhere on the front page, the finger is pointed at me.”
Maisie delved further. “The police haven’t returned since last week?”
“No. Of course they come to the house to check that I’m still here, and I’m not supposed to leave the area, pending the closure of inquiries, or whatever the official line is.”
Maisie was surprised that Stratton had not revisited Sedgewick since Lydia Fisher’s body was discovered. “John, Lydia Fisher was found dead—murdered—last week. A subsequent post-mortem examination suggested that there were similarities between your wife’s murder and Mrs. Fisher’s. I suspect the police have not spoken to you yet, pending further investigation. The press was rather too forthcoming with details of your wife’s murder and as there are those who will copy infamy, the police might not want to draw attention to similarities at this very early stage. I have no doubt, though, that the police—and the press—will be on your doorstep again soon.”
Sedgewick clutched his shoulders, rocking himself back and forth, then stood up, and began to pace. “They’ll think it was me, they’ll think it was me. . . .”
“Calm down, John, calm down. They will not think it’s you. I suspect that their conclusions will be quite the opposite.”
“Oh, that poor woman, that poor woman . . . and my poor Pippin.” John Sedgewick began to weep as he sat heavily in the armchair, and Maisie knelt so that he could lean upon her shoulder. All formalities of polite interaction between a woman and a man she did not know fell away as Maisie allowed her strength of spirit to seep into Sedgewick. Once again he fought for composure.
