harm’s way? Was it even possible that Charlotte was now seeking a religious life to expiate the crime of murder?
The sitting room door opened quietly and a woman of average height entered the room at the same time as the sliding door behind the iron grille that separated Dame Constance from visitors opened again with a thud.
Maisie studied Charlotte quickly. She wore a gray skirt, a long woolen cardigan knitted in a fine gauge, a plain white blouse, black shoes and opaque stockings. Her mousy hair, parted in the center and drawn back into a loose bun, seemed to form a pair of curtains framing her face. Her only color came from her bright, pale blue eyes. So presented, she was unremarkable and completely forgettable. And as she opened her mouth to greet Charlotte, Maisie remembered Andrew Dene’s remark about Rosamund Thorpe: “It was as if coming here . . . was a sort of self-flagellation.”
Maisie rose from her chair. “Good morning, Miss Waite.” She held out her hand, quickly trying to take the measure of her subject in the mood and emotions revealed by her stance. “I am so pleased that you agreed to see me,” Maisie assured the still figure before her.
Charlotte Waite seemed to be frozen to the spot. Only her eyes gave away a certain dislike of Maisie, based in all likelihood upon her hostility toward the person whom she represented.
“Let’s sit down,” offered Maisie.
Charlotte moved silently toward the other wing chair set opposite, smoothed the back of her skirt and was seated, her knees together with her legs slanted to one side, as she had been taught at her finishing school in Switzerland.
Maisie cleared her throat. “Charlotte, your father is very worried about you.”
Charlotte looked up, then shrugged, giving the impression of a spoiled girl rather than a grown woman.
Maisie persisted. “I realize that there may be some miscommunication between yourself and your father. Please help me to understand what has come between you. Perhaps I can be of service in some way.”
Charlotte Waite appeared to consider the question. Eventually she spoke in a voice that seemed to Maisie very much like her father’s. It was a strong voice, a voice that didn’t belong in the gray-clad, slender, almost frail body.
“Miss Dobbs, I appreciate your efforts. However, Joseph Waite wants only to have what he considers his property collected nicely together with all the rest of his possessions. I am exercising my choice to belong not to him but to myself.”
“I understand your position, Miss Waite. But surely this cannot be attained by flight?” Maisie stole a glance at Dame Constance through the grille.
“I have tried to speak to my father. I have lived in his house for a long time. He wants me to be dependent upon him for my every thought, for me to remain in his sight, under his control.”
“And what is the reason, in your estimation, for such behavior?”
Maisie knew she must suspend all judgment. But she had begun to dislike and mistrust Charlotte Waite and her rationalizations. Had her earlier feeling of pity for Joseph Waite biased her?
“Well, you’re certainly different from the last investigator he sent after me.”
“Indeed. But my question remains.”
Charlotte Waite took a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. “I’ve tried, Miss Dobbs, all my life, to make up for the fact that I am not my brother. I am not Joseph the Second. All the things I was good at were so different from all the things that he was good at, and he excelled at being my father’s favorite.” Charlotte Waite blurted out her words.
Maisie suspected that she had never confided her true thoughts before. “And what were your feelings toward your brother, Miss Waite?”
Charlotte Waite began to cry.
“Speak to me, Charlotte.” Maisie deliberately addressed her by her first name.
“I loved Joe. I adored him and looked up to him. He was always there, always. He protected me, but . . .”
“Yes?”
“I was torn, too.”
“Torn?”
“Yes, I . . . I was sort of . . . envious of him, especially as I grew older. I wondered why he was the favorite and not me. He could work for my father, while I was treated as if I didn’t have a brain at all. I was pushed to one side and ignored.”
Maisie was silent. How fortunate, by contrast, she had been in her growing up and in her opportunities, though Charlotte was a rich man’s daughter. How very lucky she had been. She took a deep breath. Maisie wanted to move on, to the day that Charlotte left her father’s house. She must balance her undertaking to bring back Joseph Waite’s daughter to him with her need to solve the murders of three women. The other members of Charlotte’s coterie.
“Miss Waite. Charlotte, if I may. Perhaps you could explain to me the connection between the feelings you describe, and what happened on the day you left your father’s house.”
Charlotte sniffed, and dabbed at her nose. Maisie watched her carefully, mistrusting the volatility of the other woman’s emotional state.
“Frankly, I was fed up with being in my father’s house. I had wanted to leave for years, but he wouldn’t support me unless I remained under his roof.”
Maisie bristled at Charlotte’s words of entitlement.
“Support you, Miss Waite?”
