lieutenants, they were, originally. You can’t hear much through these walls. But he upset her, I do know that. And as he was leaving the parlor—he’d opened the door, so I heard everything—he said something . . . well, threatening, I suppose you’d call it.”
“What was it?”
“He said ‘You’ll pay. You’ll all pay one day. Mark my words, my girl, you will pay.’ Then he left, slamming the front door behind him so hard I thought the house would fall down. Mind you, as it’s been here this long, the likes of Joseph Waite won’t hurt it now!”
Mrs. Hicks was quiet for a while before speaking again, this time with less forcefulness.
“But you know what was the strangest thing?”
“What was that, Mrs. Hicks?” Maisie’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper.
“I came out of the dining room, where I had been arranging some flowers, when I heard the parlor door open. I wanted to be ready to show him out. Well, he held up his hand to me, like this”—Mrs. Hicks held her arm out as a London bobby might when stopping traffic— “when he’d finished speaking, to stop me from coming toward him. Then he turned away quickly. You see, Miss, he was crying. That man had tears streaming down his face. I don’t know whether it was anger or sadness, or what it was. But . . . very confusing it was, what with Mrs. Thorpe so upset, too.”
That the control-obsessed Joseph Waite had lost his composure did not surprise Maisie, for she knew that when such people cross an emotional boundary, it often leads to a breakdown. She remembered Billy’s despair, and those times when she, too, had known such sadness, and as she did so, her heart ached not only for Rosamund but, strangely, for Joseph Waite. Whatever else he might have done, this was a man who had truly known sorrow.
“Did he come here again?”
“Never. And I would have known about it if he had.”
“And she never took you into her confidence, about the reason for his visit?”
“No. Seemed to me like he wanted to make her as miserable as he was.”
“Hmmm. Mrs. Hicks, I know I’ve already asked you this, but I must be sure: Do you really think that Mrs. Thorpe’s death was caused by someone else?”
The housekeeper hesitated, turning her wedding ring around on her finger repeatedly before replying.
“Yes, I do. There is some wavering in my heart. And I can’t be sure because I wasn’t here. But to take her own life? I do doubt it very much, very much indeed. She seemed to be on a mission to help people, especially those men who’d been to war, the ones who were just boys, wounded boys.”
The clock on the mantelpiece began to strike a quarter to twelve.
“Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Hicks. You have been very helpful once again.”
Mrs Hicks took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her moist eyes.
Maisie stood and placed an arm around the housekeeper’s shoulder. “Oh, Mrs. Hicks, you must miss her very much.”
“Oh, I do, Miss Dobbs. I do miss her very much. Mrs. Thorpe was a lovely, kind woman, and too young to die. I haven’t even had the heart to send her clothes away, like Mr. Thorpe’s children told me to do.”
Maisie felt a sensation of touch, as if another hand had gently been placed upon her own as it lay on Mrs. Hicks shoulder. A picture of Rosamund had formed in her mind.
“Mrs. Hicks, was Mrs. Thorpe in mourning attire when she died?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she was. Her nice black dress, very proper, yet fashionable. She wasn’t a dowdy one, Mrs. Thorpe, always beautifully turned out.”
“Was she buried in—”
“The dress? Oh no, I couldn’t allow that, not going into the cold ground in her widow’s weeds. No, I made sure she was in her lovely silk dressing gown. Like a sleeping beauty, she was. No, the dress she was wearing is in the wardrobe. I put it away as soon as I’d dressed her. Didn’t want strangers putting clothes on her so I dressed her myself. I thought I should throw it out, the black dress, but I couldn’t bring myself to.”
“May I see the garment, please?”
Mrs Hicks seemed surprised at the request, but nodded. “Well, of course, Miss Dobbs. Through here.”
Mrs. Hicks led the way into the bedroom, where she opened a mahogany wardrobe and took out a black low- waisted dress in fine wool with a silk sash that matched silk binding at the neckline and cuffs. There were two elegant patch pockets on the bodice, each rimmed with black silk.
Maisie held up the dress by the hanger, then walked to the bed and laid the garment out in front of her.
“And the dress has not been cleaned since?”
“No, I put it straight in the wardrobe, with mothballs of course.”
Maisie nodded and turned to the dress again. As Mrs. Hicks moved to open the window to “let some air in here,” Maisie reached into the left pocket and searched inside carefully. Nothing. She leaned over and looked down into the right pocket and again reached inside. Something pricked at the pillowed skin on the underside of her fingertips. Maintaining contact, with her other hand Maisie reached into her own pocket for a clean handkerchief, which she opened before carefully pulling out the object that had so lightly grazed her fingertips. The soft white feather of a fledgling. She inspected her catch briefly before placing it in the waiting handkerchief, which she quickly returned to her jacket pocket.
“Everything all right, Miss Dobbs?”
“Yes, it’s lovely. Such a shame to waste a beautiful dress, yet it’s tinged with so much grief.”
