“I thought the same myself. I should’ve burned it, really I should. Perhaps that’s what I’ll do.”
The dress might be evidence, and must not be lost. Maisie cautioned the housekeeper, careful not to cause alarm. “Oh no, don’t do that. Please keep it—look, I think I know someone who could make good use of the dress. Shall I let you know?”
The housekeeper nodded. “Well, it is too good to destroy. I’ll keep it until I hear from you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hicks. You’ve been most kind, especially as I came unannounced and on short notice.”
“Oh, but you weren’t unannounced. Dr. Dene said to help you in any way I could. That you were completely trustworthy and acting in Mrs. Thorpe’s best interests. You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for your lunch.”
“How did you know?”
“It was just a good guess, Miss Dobbs. Dr. Dene seemed a bit too sparky when I told him I had some information for you, as if he quite liked the idea of speaking to you again himself. Now, it’s none of my business, and it’s not how it would have been done in my day, not when Mr. Hicks and I were walking out together. But I thought he might invite you to have a spot of lunch with him today. He had that sound in his voice.”
Maisie blushed. “And what sound is that, Mrs. Hicks?”
“Oh, you know. That sound. The one that a gentleman has when he’s pleased with himself.”
Maisie suppressed a smile and said good-bye to Mrs. Hicks. Though she was looking forward to lunch with Andrew Dene, she was also anxious to be alone, to spread out the index cards that she had made notes on, to assess what this morning’s gathering of information meant. The picture was becoming clearer, as if each conversation were a series of brushstrokes adding color and depth to a story that was now unfolding quite rapidly. She had three feathers, evidence that the three deaths were linked, and that Rosamund Thorpe, too, had most definitely been murdered.
She drove down the hill to meet Andrew Dene, by the fishing boats at the place where the old horse turned the winch that brought the boats ashore, wishing she could get back to London, yet feeling guilty for wishing because of her father’s need for her. She was anxious to sit with Billy at the incident table with all their clues, suspicions, evidence, hunches, and scribbles laid out in front of them. She wanted to find the key, the answer to her question: What was the connection between three small white feathers, three dead women and their murderer? And how was Joseph Waite involved? She felt for the handkerchief in her pocket, and patted it.
“Thank you, Rosamund,” she said, as she placed her hand on the steering wheel again.
Maisie parked the car at the bottom of the High Street, to much attention by passersby. As she walked along the seafront, where seagulls and pigeons followed pedestrians in the hope that a breadcrumb or two would be dropped, she made a mental note to ask Billy why he couldn’t stand pigeons.
The weather was crisp, but fine enough for Andrew Dene and Maisie to walk to the pier after a quick fish-and- chips lunch. The sun was higher in the sky and had it been warmer, one might have thought it summer.
“I cannot believe you removed all that lovely batter before eating the fish!” Andrew Dene teased Maisie.
“I love the fish, but don’t really care for batter. Mind you, the chips were tasty.”
“But you fed most of them to the seagulls, and they’re fat enough already!”
They walked in silence. Maisie looked at her watch once again.
“Do you know how many times in one minute you’ve looked at your watch? I know you can’t find my company
“I beg your pardon?” Maisie’s eyes widened. She had never met a man of such impertinence. “I was going to say that I ought to be turning around, to get to my motor by—”
“Half past one? Ish? Yes, I haven’t forgotten. Have you made any headway today, Miss Dobbs?”
“I’ve certainly gleaned more information, Doctor. It’s putting the pieces together in a logical form that’s the challenge. Sometimes it’s guesswork all the way.”
“Anything more I can do to help?” They were strolling back to the car, Maisie consciously keeping her hands deep in the pockets of her raincoat, holding tight to the linen handkerchief that held the third feather. She would not look at her watch again until she was well away from Andrew Dene.
“No . . . yes, yes there is, actually. Tell me, Dr. Dene, if you were to name one thing that made the difference between those who get well quickly and those who don’t, what would it be?”
“Phew. Another simple question from Maisie Dobbs!”
“I’m serious.”
“And so am I. It’s a tricky one, and one that you are probably more qualified to answer than I. You were a nurse and, more important, you have training in psychological matters.”
“I’d like your opinion. Please, take a stab at it.” Maisie turned toward him as she walked, challenging Dene to respond.
“Well, if I were to name one thing, it would be acceptance.”
“Acceptance? But doesn’t that stop the injured or wounded from trying to get better?”
“Ah, now you’re playing devil’s advocate, aren’t you? In my opinion acceptance has to come first. Some people don’t accept what has happened. They think, ‘Oh, if only I hadn’t walked up that street when I did,’ or in a case like your father’s: ‘If only I’d known the ground was that wet and that Fred, or whatever his name was, had left his tools in the way.’ They are stuck at the point of the event that caused the injury.”
“Yes, I think I know what you mean.”
“So, in the case of the soldiers who find it difficult to move on— and of course, some have had terrible injuries that all the therapeutic assistance in the world can’t help—but those who find it difficult to accept are stuck in time, they keep thinking back to when it happened. And it’s not so much, ‘Oh, I wish I’d never enlisted.’ In fact most say, ‘At least I went,’ but instead it’s a case of ‘If only I’d ducked, jumped when I could have, run a bit faster, gone back for my friend.’ And of course, it all gets mixed up with the guilt of actually surviving when their pals didn’t.”
