cocktails. Now, I like a drink myself, but this was beyond the pale. I tried to get in contact with her old friends for advice and help, but they’d lost touch. Lydia never said anything definite, but I think they had argued before the end of the war. Probably about Lydia’s drinking. I did meet Philippa a couple of times in the weeks before she was murdered, as I said, but, frankly, she wasn’t very helpful. I wanted her to speak to Lydia, try to get her to dry out.”
“And did they meet?”
“No. Philippa said she would, then bagged out. I have to admit, I all but lost my temper. I mean, to let a silly little row get in the way. Women!” He shook his head. “Anyway, my pleas were met with a very cowardly ‘You don’t understand.’ By that time, of course, our marriage had fallen apart completely. If you must know, I clung to the money, and Lydia clung to the nearest bottle. Apparently, she even invited some Cockney tyke up to the house for a drink on the evening she was killed. I’ve heard he’s off the hook, though. Probably the man I saw when I went in to get my luggage. By the way—I’m not telling you anything I haven’t already told the police.”
Maisie nodded and continued. “You were at the house on the day your wife died?”
“For about five minutes. Lydia was in her cups, so I left again pretty sharpish, taking my belongings with me. The marriage was over.”
“I see.” Maisie gave nothing away about Billy’s visit, and paused before her next question to Fisher. “And you are sure you never saw Charlotte Waite after Switzerland?”
“No. The others didn’t even come to our wedding. Mind you, I don’t actually know if they were invited. I just smiled and said ‘Thank you’ throughout the whole thing.”
“And did your wife ever say anything about Charlotte?”
“Oh, I think she might have come to the house, and Lydia mentioned that she was kept on a close rein by her father. Absurd situation, if ever there was one. I cannot wait until they find the murderer and I can get back to Africa—or anywhere else as far away from this freezing miserable place as possible!”
They crossed the road to Temple underground station. “And you’re sure there’s nothing more you can tell me about Charlotte Waite, Mr. Fisher?”
Magnus Fisher shook his head. “No. Nothing. With Stratton and his bulldog, the slobbering Caldwell, at my heels, my concern is self-preservation at the moment, Miss Dobbs.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fisher.”
“Mind you, there is one thing.”
“Yes, Mr. Fisher?”
“Won’t you have supper with me, as soon as the police are off my back?”
Maisie’s eyes opened wide, so that even behind her spectacles her indignation was obvious. “Thank you for the invitation, but I think
And though he had just given Maisie a considerable amount of information to contemplate, she inclined her head curtly and left Magnus Fisher standing outside Temple underground station.
To cool her temper Maisie walked briskly toward The Strand, where she turned left, making her way to Southam Street and Covent Garden.
“The cheek of it!” she muttered under her breath. “And his wife’s body isn’t yet cold!” But though she found him to be quite detestable, Fisher had not emanated an air of menace. She doubted if he cared enough about anything, even money, to kill for it.
Walking through the market, which was less frenetic now that the morning’s business was done, soothed Maisie. It reminded her of her father, who would sometimes bring her to the market with him early in the morning when she was a child. She would laugh at porters moving to and fro with six, seven, eight, or ten round baskets of fruit and vegetables perched on their heads, and the air was always sweetly salty with the smell of sweating horses pulling heavy carts.
She descended into the depths of Covent Garden underground, taking the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square, then the Northern Line to Warren Street, where she emerged.
“Morning, Miss Dobbs. In a rush today?” Jack Barker doffed his cap as Maisie walked quickly past him.
“Always busy, Mr. Barker.”
Maisie slammed the door behind her, causing Billy to jump.
“Blimey, Miss! Gawd, you scared the daylights out of me.”
“I’m sorry, Billy. I just met with Magnus Fisher. Not the most savory person in the world, though he was useful.” Maisie removed her coat and walked over to the table where Billy was working. She placed several more index cards on the table.
“I jotted these down while I was on the train.”
Billy began to read. “Oh, so—”
A sudden thud on the window made Maisie and Billy start. Maisie gasped and held her hand to her chest.
“What the—”
“Stupid bloomin’ pigeon!”
“Pigeon?”
Billy walked over to the window. “Not to worry. ’e didn’t top ’im-self. Probably flyin’ around with a bit of a bump on ’is ’ead though. Stupid bird.”
“Was it a pigeon, then, Billy?”
“Certainly was, Miss. They do that sometimes, fly into windows.”
