Birds of a Feather

Maisie ran to his side, and in the same way that Mrs. Crawford was taken aback, so Maurice was reminded of the years when Maisie was his pupil, drinking eagerly from the well of knowledge he provided.

“I am so glad, so very glad. Now he will be on the mend. It’s amazing how the body and mind are connected. Even when conscious thought has slipped away, the patient is aware of the healing presence of love.”

“If I had that much power, Maurice, he’d walk out of there today. But, listen, there’s more. We began to speak . . . together.”

Maurice stood aside, holding out his arm to allow Maisie to enter his home.

“It is indeed a wondrous universal alchemy, is it not? When one’s heartfelt intentions cause mountains to move.”

“Well, whatever it is, I’m glad, very glad. And if it’s not too selfish of me, I’d like a mite more alchemy in my work on this case. The conservatory?”

“Yes. There’s eggs and bacon, if you like, and some quite delightful fresh rolls. They quite remind me of my childhood in Paris.”

Maisie smiled, looking forward to the strong black coffee that Maurice favored.

Teacher and pupil, master and apprentice, Maurice Blanche and Maisie Dobbs sat together in the warm, light- filled conservatory, which commanded a flower-filled view across the garden to the fields beyond, as Maisie gave Maurice a full account of her work on the Charlotte Waite case, and how it had expanded to encompass the murders.

“Yes, your investigation thus far does seem to indicate that the Thorpe woman’s death should be looked at more closely.” Blanche leaned back in the Lloyd Loom wicker chair, watching a flight of sparrows descend on the bird table freshly laden with breadcrumbs. Maisie waited.

“An overdose for Thorpe? Followed by morphine and the bayonet of a Lee Enfield rifle for the other two women, you say?”

She sipped the soothing coffee but hardly touched her crusty roll, despite her realization that she hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s lunch with Detective Inspector Stratton. She was beginning to wish she had a glass of Maurice’s elderflower wine clasped in her fingers. Her interrogation was beginning.

“It’s as if the murderer was not satisfied with the poison alone, as if a deeper . . . emotion— yes, I think that’s the right word, emotion— needed to be vented. Vindicated.”

“Have you spoken to Mrs. Thorpe’s physician regarding her mental well-being? Have you completely ruled out suicide?”

“No . . . not completely. Her physician is the one who issued the death certificate. He’d concluded it was suicide. I spoke to the housekeeper, who knew her very well, and to others in the town.”

“I don’t doubt your instinct, but intuition must be supported by footwork. Now then, about the Sedgewick woman. You say that Fisher has been arrested based on evidence linking him to Mrs. Sedgewick, suggesting that they were romantically involved?”

“According to John Sedgewick, her husband, Fisher had been in touch regarding his wife’s drinking, which was beyond his power to control. He also said that his wife did not want to meet with Fisher, but acquiesced out of some sort of loyalty to her old friend. It’s a very different relationship to the one the police have posited. I get the impression, Maurice, that—with the exception of a level of communication between Lydia and Charlotte—these women, who had once been good friends, kept well away from one another.”

“And why do you think there was a division among them?”

Maisie allowed her eyes to rest on the bird table, at the flurry of excitement, beaks peck-pecking for a crumb of food, peck-pecking at one another as they pressed tiny, fragile bodies onto the wooden platform.

“What do you think, Maisie?”

“I think that something happened, years ago.” Maisie spoke slowly and deliberately while watching the frenzied feeding at the bird table. “Something . . . I’m not sure, but I feel . . . very much, that it’s something of which they want no reminder. And seeing each other, keeping in touch, brings back the . . . shame.”

Silence enveloped the room. Then Blanche said, “Do you have something to show me.”

“Yes, I have.” Maisie reached into her pocket, taking out the folded handkerchief and setting it on the table between them. “Shall I get your spectacles, Maurice? I think you’ll need them.”

Blanche nodded.

“Here you are.” Maisie handed the lizard-skin-covered case to Maurice, who opened it so carefully that she could hear the almost imperceptible whine of hinges separating. He took out the wire-rimmed half-moon spectacles, placed them on his nose and leaned forward to watch as Maisie unfolded the handkerchief, his chin tilted upward just slightly to improve his view.

With the tips of the thumb and forefinger of each hand, Maisie spread out the handkerchief to reveal her evidence.

Maurice looked at the opened fine linen square, then back into Maisie’s eyes. They had moved into such proximity that they could feel each other’s breath.

“Ah, so delicate. Nature is by far the most talented artist.”

“Yes, she is, isn’t she?”

“And you found one at the Fisher house and the other at the Sedgewick house?”

“I entered Lydia Fisher’s house soon after her murder, and was drawn to the first, although it was almost concealed. The one at the Sedgewick house was hidden inside a book.”

“Which you just happened to open, no doubt?”