Birds of a Feather

“Yes.”

“And the woman in Hastings? Mrs. Thorpe?”

“Many weeks have passed since her death, Maurice, and Mrs. Hicks has ensured that the house is immaculate for a potential buyer. I fear that if there was one, it would have been swept away by now.”

“So, Maisie, what are your thoughts? What does this mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I feel that they are significant.”

Like marionettes orchestrated by the same puppeteer, Maisie and Maurice reached forward at the same time to touch the delicate perfection that lay before them: two small, white, downy feathers.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

After breakfast Maisie reclaimed the MG from George— who protested that he had baredly started work on paintwork— and left for Hastings, planning to be there in plenty of time to allow her to return to her father’s side that afternoon. As she came over the hill into the Old Town, the sea sparkled on the horizon with sunlight reflecting on the water, making it seem as if diamonds had been sprinkled liberally on the surface. Parking outside All Saints’ Convalescent Hospital, Maisie stopped for a while to admire the view and to look down at the lilliputian Old Town itself. In the distance she could hear the clinker-built fishing boats being drawn up onto the pebble beach with heavy winches, and seagulls wheeling overhead. The morning catch was late coming in.

“That sea air does you the power of good, you know!”

“Oh, Dr. Dene! I didn’t see you walking as I drove up the hill.”

“No, you wouldn’t have, I took a short-cut. The Old Town’s full of nooks, crannies, twittens and secret places that only the locals know and I’m a fully fledged local now.”

Andrew Dene reached to open the door for her. She saw that he had noticed her informal attire.

“I just have to let the office know I’m here; then let’s go to my lair, where we can discuss the two things on your mind.” Dene poked his head around the door to the office. She heard his voice, then laughter among the staff before he retracted his head and led Maisie along the corridor to his “lair,” which was still just as untidy.

“So: Your father’s convalescence and Rosamund Thorpe?”

Maisie removed her gloves. “How do you know about my father?”

Dene raised an eyebrow. “The jungle drums have been a-beating. And I had cause to speak with Maurice this morning. I know Dr. Simms at Pembury who attended your father when he was brought in. Good man. All his patients make an excellent recovery. I’ve worked with him on several cases.”

“I see.”

As if reading her mind, Dene continued. “We have a first-class accident recuperation record here, Miss Dobbs. I’d be delighted to arrange for your father to be admitted upon his discharge from Pembury. I can start—” Dene leaned toward a pile of folders that wobbled precariously at his touch. Maisie instinctively reached to steady the pile.

“Don’t worry, Miss Dobbs, haven’t lost a file yet.” He pulled a buff-colored folder from the mountain of paperwork. “That’ll tell you how much work I have to do. As I was saying, I can start the file right now and contact Dr. Simms to let him know we’ve spoken.”

“Thank you. That will be a weight off my mind.”

“Good, good. It’s settled, then. We can go over the admitting details with the administrator as you leave.” Dene made several notations on a sheet of paper, closed the folder and set it on the desk. “Now to Mrs. Thorpe.”

“Yes. I wonder if you could tell me something more about her, especially her demeanor in the days leading up to her death. I know she spent a good deal of time here.”

“Frankly I thought she was doing quite well, especially as she was so recently a widow. But she was clearly still in mourning.” Dene leaned to one side, moved another pile of folders, and looked out at the sea before turning to Maisie again. “You think she was murdered, don’t you?”

Maisie’s eyes registered her surprise. She had not expected to hear such speculation from Andrew Dene. “Well, actually—”

“Oh, come on, Miss Dobbs. I know Maurice, remember. I know very well what you do. And Rosamund Thorpe was well liked and respected in the Old Town, even though she was an outsider.”

“Do you think she killed herself, Dr. Dene? Wouldn’t you recognize the symptoms of the despair that precedes such an action?”

Dene was thoughtful.

“Does your silence mean there is doubt?”

“My thoughtfulness is simply that, Miss Dobbs: Thoughtfulness. You see, though I think it unlikely that a woman such as Mrs. Thorpe would take her own life, I noticed her sadness on several occasions, particularly when she was reading to veterans. Now, it’s a subjective observation, completely lacking in the protocols of diagnosis, but —her sadness seemed more poignant than anything I observed with respect to other volunteers. You have to understand that among volunteers there are differing emotional responses to what they see. For example, we all know a veteran of the war when we see one on the street, whether he’s an amputee, blinded, or disfigured, but when we are close to that person, in a setting like this, filled with others who are equally disabled—it’s a reminder, a terrible reminder. I believe it can make people recall events and feelings that they would rather forget. Most quickly get over it and before they know where they are, they’re singing ‘I Don’t Want To Go Into The Army’ with the patients at the hospital Christmas party.”

“But Mrs. Thorpe?”

“She wasn’t like that. Though she had a broad smile for every patient—and she particularly asked to be of assistance to those who were soldiers—she was grieving as she left after each visit. It was as if coming here, doing