Birds of a Feather

Maisie looked on each surface and under each piece of furniture. Sedgewick, who was now very much at ease in her company, seemed to ramble in conversation. Maisie touched a place on the floor, then brought her fingers close to her nose.

“I heard two of the constables speaking. Apparently Stratton lost his wife in childbirth five years ago. Got a little boy at home and is bringing him up alone. It would make him more understanding, I suppose.”

Maisie had been kneeling. She stood so quickly that her head spun.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Dobbs. Yes, he’s a widower. Just like me.”

Maisie quickly completed her investigation, taking care not to let her desire to be alone, to gather her thoughts, distract her from the job at hand. She might not have another opportunity. But there seemed to be nothing that spoke to her here except John Sedgewick’s grief.

“It’s time for me to go, John. Will you be all right?”

“Yes, I will. Speaking about Pippin seems to have fortified me. I should do something, I suppose. Tidy the house, that sort of thing. Mrs. Noakes has been too upset to come back, though she did write to say that she believes me innocent. Which is heartwarming, considering that my own sister and mother are keeping well away, and Pippin’s mother is too full of grief to visit.”

“Perhaps if you open the curtains, you’ll feel even better. Let the light in, John.”

Sedgewick smiled. “I could probably do with getting out into the garden. It was always Pippin’s domain, you know, the garden. Since she was a child she loved to grow things.”

“Enjoy the garden. After all, she planted it for both of you.”

As Maisie turned to leave, she felt a pressure in the middle of her back, as if she was being restrained. She gasped at the sensation, and realized that she had missed something, something she should not have overlooked.

“John, is there someplace here, a part of the garden, perhaps, that your wife particularly liked? Did she have a potting shed or greenhouse, that sort of thing?”

“Yes, at the side of the house here. In fact, Mrs. Noakes said that Pippin was in there when she left to go shopping. She loved the greenhouse. I designed it for her. You’ll see, it has three parts: a traditional glass section for bringing on seedlings; a shed with windows so that she would have a shaded area for potting; then the third part is a sort of conservatory, where she had her exotics, and where she would sit in her armchair with a gardening book. I don’t think I ever saw her with another type of book. Let me show you.”

Sedgewick led the way to the side of the house, where a willow tree obscured Philippa Sedgewick’s horticultural sanctuary from street view. Maisie entered, and immediately felt the humid warmth of a well-tended greenhouse, along with the pungent salty aroma of young geraniums growing in terra-cotta pots. She walked slowly along an inner path, to a stable door of wood and glass. Opening top and bottom, Maisie entered the musky potting shed, then walked through to the small conservatory-cum-sitting-room on the other side: the dead woman’s own special domain.

It reminded her of the winter garden where Simon sat with his blanket and his secrets. A wicker chair with green and rose cushions was still indented, as if the owner had only just risen. It seemed so warm that a cat would have immediately claimed the place. Once again Maisie paced, and was immediately drawn to a gardening book set on a table beside the chair. She opened the front cover and leafed through until the book seemed to fall open at the point where Philippa Sedgewick had set her bookmark, perhaps when the killer had come to call. She imagined Philippa hearing the sharp rap of the door knocker in the distance, quickly marking her place and jumping up to answer the door. Or had the killer come to look for her when his knock was not answered? If he was an acquaintance, she would have marked her place and offered tea.

Geranium. Pelargonium. Maisie ran her finger down the spine of the book, and as she did so, she felt a faint prickle. Looking more closely, she reached in and carefully took out the spiny yet smooth source of the sensation. Yes, yes, yes.

Maisie placed her find within a handkerchief while John Sedgewick was looking at a rather large waxy green plant in the corner. “Of course, I couldn’t tell one from the other, though Pippin could name every one, and in Latin. I think that’s the only reason she studied Latin in school, to learn more about plants.”

“I learned Latin once myself, simply to better understand another subject. I’d better be going, John. Thank you so much for your help, you have been most kind.”

Sedgewick held out his hand to Maisie. “Well, it was a dodgy start, wasn’t it? But I think you have helped me more than I’ve assisted you.”

“Oh, you have helped, John. Enormously. I am sure that you’ll be seeing Detective Inspector Stratton soon, and I’d appreciate it if no mention is made of my visit here today.”

“Not a word, Miss Dobbs, not a word. But, before you go, what case are you working on, if I may ask?”

“It has to do with a missing person.” She left at once, to avoid further questions. She needed to think. Starting the MG as quickly as she could, Maisie pushed the motor car into gear. She turned to look at Number Fourteen Bluebell Avenue one last time before speeding off, and saw John Sedgewick walk slowly toward his wife’s roses, then reach down to pull some weeds. Later, as she moved into traffic to return to London, Maisie thought not of Sedgewick but of Richard Stratton. A man who had lost his wife, too. And she thought of the chance discovery she had made, which she would now take back to her rooms and place with the twin that she had carefully wrapped in another linen handkerchief while standing in Lydia Fisher’s drawing room.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The gas fire was turned off, so the room was cold by the time Maisie arrived back at the office on Sunday evening. On the desk in front of her she saw a single sheet of paper filled with Billy’s large, primary school handwriting, along with several unopened envelopes placed separately on the desk so that Maisie could view each one individually before slicing it open. Billy had had a productive Saturday morning.

“Brrr. Let’s see: Cantwell bill sent out, good. Lady Rowan telephoned, no message. Andrew Dene . . . Andrew Dene? Hmmm.” Maisie raised her eyebrows and continued. “Returned folders to solicitors—” The telephone rang.

“Fitzroy five six double O.”