Birds of a Feather

“Well, it would never do, would it? The daughter of Joseph Waite living alone and working.”

“Hmmm. Yes,” said Maisie, in a manner she hoped would encourage Charlotte to continue. She could feel Dame Constance watching her now, and suspected that she had intuited her thoughts and understood her dilemma.

“Anyway, life had become difficult. Breakfast was the last straw.”

“Did you have an argument with your father?”

“No, we didn’t say a word to each other, except ‘Good morning.’ Perhaps it would have been better if we’d argued. At least it would have meant he noticed me.”

“Go on, Charlotte.”

Charlotte breathed in deeply. “I sat down, opened the newspaper and read that an old friend had . . .”

“Been murdered.”

“How did you know?”

“It’s my job, Miss Waite.”

“You knew that I had been upset by reading of Philippa’s death?”

“I suspected it. But why did you leave your father’s home? What did you fear?”

Charlotte swallowed. “I hadn’t actually seen her for a long time, not since the war. If I had told my father about her death, he would have thought my distress unwarranted.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

She’s lying, thought Maisie, who continued to press her subject, as far as she dare. “Was there another reason for your departure? You said that relations between you and your father had been troublesome for a while.”

“All my life!” Charlotte was vehement.

“Yes, I realize that. It must have been very difficult for you. But you seemed to suggest that relations with your father had been more difficult than usual.”

Charlotte stared at Maisie, as if trying to guess how much she already knew, then relented. “Another friend had died several weeks earlier. She . . . had taken her own life. We hadn’t been in touch since the war either, and I only knew because I read about it in the obituary column of The Times. In fact, I didn’t know at first that she’d . . . done it herself. I found out later when I telephoned the family to offer my condolences.”

“I see. And your father?”

“Wouldn’t let me attend the memorial service. Forbade it. Of course, she didn’t have a funeral, not a proper one, because the church doesn’t permit funerals for suicides.”

“And why do you think he forbade you to attend?”

“Oh, probably because I had known her so long ago, and I . . . I get upset.”

“Is there anything else, Charlotte? Any other reason?”

“No.”

Too quick. Too quick to answer.

“How did you first become acquainted with these two friends, Philippa and . . . ?”

“Rosamund.” Charlotte picked at a hangnail. “We knew each other ages ago, first at school, then during the war,” she replied, dismissively.

Her manner was not lost on Maisie, who pushed for a more concrete answer.

“What did you do during the war, together?”

“I can’t remember now. It was so long ago.”

Maisie watched as Charlotte Waite rubbed her hands together, in an effort to disguise their shaking.

“So, your father disliked two of your friends. And what did he think of Lydia Fisher.”

Charlotte jumped up from her chair. “How do you know Lydia? Oh, my God, you knew all the time, didn’t you?”

“Sit down, Miss Waite. Take a deep breath and be calm. I am not here to antagonize you or to harm you. I am simply searching for the truth.” Maisie turned briefly to the grille and saw Dame Constance raise an eyebrow. I’m on shaky ground, but she’ll let me press on. For now.

Charlotte took a seat once again.

“What’s Lydia got to do with this?”

“You won’t have seen the papers, Charlotte, but Lydia Fisher is dead.”

“Oh, no! No!” It seemed to be an outcry of genuine surprise.

“And her husband, Magnus, has been arrested for the murders of both Philippa and Lydia.”

“Magnus?”

“You seem surprised.”