Birds of a Feather

“Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes.”

“It’s John Sedgewick here. Glad I caught you.”

“Do you have some news, Mr. Sedgewick?” Maisie deliberately reverted to a more formal address.

“Yes I do. I thought you’d like to know that Detective Inspector Stratton and the obnoxious Caldwell came to the house after you left. They were asking about that Magnus Fisher.”

“Really? What did they want to know?”

“Well, more about his contact with Pippin. I told them what I told you. There wasn’t more to tell. Don’t worry, I did not breathe a word about your being here. But Stratton gave me something to think about.”

“And that is?”

“It turns out that Pippin did see Fisher. He’d returned from one of his expeditions about two months ago, and it was during that time that they met. He went off again for a couple of weeks, then came back again. Apparently the dates of his return trips almost mirror the dates of Pippin and Mrs. Fisher’s murders, so the police are interested in him.”

“Did they say anything about motive?”

“No. Stratton gave me the ‘all avenues’ line again, and asked if I knew Lydia Fisher. They also asked me—again, I might add—the most intimate details about my marital happiness.”

“All in the line of duty, Mr. Sedgewick. No doubt they asked you to speculate as to why Mrs. Sedgewick met with Fisher.”

“Yes, and I said that I thought she might have been trying to help in some way, given Mrs. Fisher’s problems. I thought they were suggesting that there was something, you know, ‘going on’ between Pippin and Fisher, especially as they had walked out together in earlier years. It really is most distressing, Miss Dobbs.”

“Of course it is, and I sympathize, Mr. Sedgewick. However, the police really are just trying to do their job. They want to find the killer before he strikes again.”

“It’s very difficult for me, yet I know you’re right.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sedgewick. You were most kind to telephone. Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. And you know, this evening one of my neighbors came to the house with some shepherd’s pie, said she hadn’t wanted to come around while the curtains were closed, and that they were so very sorry about Pippin. Mind you, she did bring her husband with her; she wasn’t that sure about me.”

“It’s a start, though. Goodnight, Mr. Sedgewick.”

“Yes, goodnight, Miss Dobbs.”

Magnus Fisher. Possible, thought Maisie, always possible. He had pursued Philippa and each of her friends. And he’d married Lydia. Had there been other, deeper relationships between Fisher and Rosamund and Charlotte? Had an earlier interest in these women lingered and faded, only to reignite and flare out of control later? She looked down and read on through Billy’s notes.

“Lady Rowan again . . . definitely not returning to Ebury Place for another fortnight at least.”

Maisie smiled at the next note, which was from Billy.Dear Miss,It’s nice to have you back here in London. I will be in sharp, nice and early tomorrow morning. Hope you had a nice time in Kent.Yours sincerely,

Billy Beale

Maisie could almost see Billy Beale as a boy, his wheaten hair disheveled and matted, freckles speckling his nose, his tongue clamped tightly between his teeth as he concentrated on sweeping his dipping pen up and down, up and down, as he constructed a letter. No doubt his teacher had emphasized use of the word nice.

Maisie perused each sealed envelope in turn until she came to a hand she knew so well, an unmistakable fine copperplate in blue-black ink. She turned the envelope over, to reveal the Camden Abbey wax seal. Underneath the address were the words “By Hand,” so the letter had obviously been delivered by later visitor to the abbey who had returned immediately to London, arriving before Maisie. Taking her Victorinox knife, Maisie slit the envelope open to reveal a folded sheet of crisp cream linen paper, so heavy it was almost card, upon which Dame Constance had written her letter:Dear Maisie,How lovely it was to see you at Camden Abbey. A visit from one of my most memorable students is always an event of great joy, but I confess I would like to see a little more weight on your bones!I will not fill my communique with more pleasantries, dear Maisie, but instead will come straight to the point as I must take advantage of delivery of this letter by a visitor from London who will be leaving shortly. I have counseled Miss Waite to see you, and she has agreed. Her confidence is due to the safety and refuge offered her by the community, so I must request that you honor my trust in you to proceed with integrity. Dame Judith has said that Miss Waite should rest for two or three days as she has caught that terrible cold we’ve all had. I suggest you come on Thursday morning.Yours sincerely,

Dame Constance Charteris

“Good.” Maisie sat at her desk, leaned back and smiled. She had no doubt that Dame Constance’s powers of persuasion had been brought to bear on Charlotte, though she wished they had resulted in a more timely interview. She would have to choose her words carefully when meeting with Joseph Waite on Tuesday.

When she left the office a heavy smog seemed, once again, to be spiraling around the trees on the square, and she could barely see the streetlamps. In the distance, she could hear both the clip-clop of hooves, and the pop and chug of motor cars ferrying people—better-off people—home from a Sunday excursion, or out to supper. Sound was distorted not only by the darkness but by the smog. She wished she were in Kent, to see the stars at night and silent fields illuminated by a full moon.

Had she already met the killer? Had they passed in the street outside Lydia Fisher’s home? Was Charlotte Waite involved, or was her flight from her father’s house simply the action of a woman who could no longer be treated as a girl? Could she be the killer? Or was she afraid of becoming the next victim? What of Magnus Fisher? What motive could he have for killing his wife and two of her acquaintances? Had something happened in Switzerland years ago? Something the women knew about that was so serious that he would kill to ensure their silence? What could Charlotte tell her about Fisher? And what of her tiny shreds of evidence, carefully preserved? Or were they nothing at all, just household detritus?

Once again her thoughts centered on the Waite household, and she examined her feelings toward both Charlotte and her father. She admitted some confusion where Joseph Waite was concerned: She found his arrogance distasteful, his controlling attitude toward his grown daughter appalling. Yet at the same time she