Birds of a Feather

“Well, I hope that doesn’t happen too often.”

“My old Mum would’ve been goin’ to pieces if she’d been ’ere. Always said that a bird in the ’ouse, or tryin’ to get inside, came with a message from the dead.”

“Oh, just what I wanted to hear!”

“Nah, Miss, nothing to worry about. Old wives’ tale, it is. Me, well, I can’t stand birds. Hate the bloomin’ things, ever since the war.”

The telephone began to ring, and Billy walked over to Maisie’s desk. “Billy—why since the—” Maisie stopped speaking as Billy picked up the receiver.

“Fitzroy f—” Billy was interrupted while trying to give the telephone number. “Yes, sir. Oh, that is good news, sir. Yes, I’ll put her on.” Billy cupped his hand over the receiver.

“Who is it, Billy?”

“It’s that Detective Inspector Stratton. All pleased with ’imself. They’ve just arrested the fella who murdered them women.”

Maisie took the receiver, greeted Stratton, and listened carefully, punctuating his news with “Really?” and “I see” along with “Very good!” and “But—” before endeavoring to deliver her final comment.

“Well, Inspector, I must offer congratulations, however, I do feel—”

There was an interruption, during which Maisie ran her fingers through tendrils of black hair that had once again escaped the pins securing her tresses in an otherwise neat chignon. Billy leaned over the case map while listening to Maisie’s half of the conversation.

“That would be lovely, Inspector. Tomorrow? Yes. All right. Schmidt’s at noon. Of course. Yes. I look forward to it.”

Maisie replaced the receiver and returned to the table near the window. She took up a pencil, which she tapped on the paper.

“So, good news, eh, Miss?”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“Is there anything wrong?”

Maisie turned to Billy. “Nothing wrong, really.”

“Phew. I bet a few women will answer their doors a little easier for that news, don’t you?”

“Perhaps, Billy.”

“Well, who is it? Anyone we know?”

“They have just arrested Magnus Fisher at his hotel. I only left him just over an hour ago. Stratton could not disclose details of the evidence. And by the way, Billy, keep quiet about this, as news hasn’t reached the press yet. Stratton said that there was a witness to Fisher entering the Cheyne Mews house on the evening of his wife’s death, and that he’d been having an affair with Philippa Sedgewick.” Maisie clasped her hands and rested her lips against her knuckles.

“Whew, would you believe it?” Billy noticed Maisie’s furrowed brow. “It sounded like you ’ad a few crossed words with ol’ Stratton.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘crossed,’ Billy, but I did try to caution him.”

“Caution ’im? Why?”

Maisie looked at Billy, her midnight blue eyes piercing through his puzzlement.

“Because, Billy, in my opinion Detective Inspector Stratton has arrested a man who is innocent of the crime of murder.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Maisie made her way along Charlotte Street toward Schmidt’s.

The day was once again changeable and brisk, so she wore her mackintosh over the new black dress. She had changed three times before leaving the house this morning, considering not only lunch with Detective Inspector Stratton but the meeting that afternoon with Joseph Waite. As she dressed she was aware of feeling in her stomach and legs that she attributed to anxiety. Though she looked forward to seeing Stratton, she was disappointed at the peremptory way in which he had brought the case of the murdered women to a close. She felt that a grave error had been made. Was this the source of the physical sensations that seemed to render her temporarily dizzy on two occasions before she left the house?

Now, as she walked along the gray flagstones, heat seemed to rise up through her body. She felt faint. She quickly turned into a side street and leaned against a brick wall for support. As she breathed deeply, her eyes closed, Maisie hoped that no one attempted to inquire after her health, or to assist her. I feel as if my foundations have been rocked, thought Maisie. She opened her eyes and gasped, for it seemed that her surroundings had changed, although they remained the same. As she tried to focus her gaze, it was as if she were looking at a picture that had been hung incorrectly, a picture that she could not quite set straight. Up a bit . . . no, down a bit . . . to the left . . . too much, just a hair right . . . And as she continued to look, the picture changed, and now she saw the Groom’s Cottage at Chelstone. Then it vanished.

Regaining her composure, Maisie stood away from the wall, keeping one hand outstretched, touching the bricks. As confidence in her stability returned, she walked slowly into Charlotte Street. Maisie brushed off the interlude, telling herself that it served her right for skipping breakfast. Frankie Dobbs would have had something to say about that! “Breakfast, my girl, is the most important meal of the day. You know what they say, Maisie: ‘Breakfast like a king, lunch like a lord, and dinner like a pauper.’ Key to bein’ as fit as a fiddle, is that.” But as she saw Stratton in the distance, waiting for her outside Schmidt’s, Maisie decided to telephone Chelstone after luncheon. Perhaps the foal had been born by now. Perhaps. . . .

Maisie poked a fork into the rich German sausage, which was served with cabbage and potatoes.